


Diamonds Are Forever

by JamesJoints



Category: Sports RPF, Tennis RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Australian Open 2019, Breaking Up & Making Up, Broken Engagement, Canon Compliant, Changing Tenses, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Retirement, Sad, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smut, big 4, they all have their own chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2019-10-21 02:47:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17634599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamesJoints/pseuds/JamesJoints
Summary: The one where Andy Murray's retirement brings them all back together.





	1. Novak.

**Author's Note:**

> So Andy retiring got me sad and simultaneously inspired. It's a reminder that these guys are human after all, despite sometimes it appearing that they aren't. The title 'Diamonds are Forever.' is from Sabrina Carpenter.

**Part One**

 

It was probably an unwise decision to be at a party one week before the Australian Open, but the guilt didn’t feel real when everyone else around him was getting fucked too. ‘

Novak was certain he had seen Nick Kyrgios drinking a bottle of milk beside the stairs and Grigor Dimitrov was typically the life of the party, stubbornly controlling the music selection and booing anyone who tried to stop him.

The room was loud and rowdy, filled with privileged models and tennis stars who didn’t care enough to be out on the practice courts, practicing the same serve a million times over. Besides, Novak thought, aa a pretty blonde kissed him extravagantly on the cheek, besides-he would win the damn thing anyways. He was _world number one_ , after all and he said as much to the girl who just grinned at him and patted his cheek like he was rambling nonsense.

‘‘I have 14 grand slams.’’ He boasts to her as she swipes the bottle of vodka from his sweaty fingers.

''And I don’t care.'' She said with a curt smile. ''Or,'' she added a moment later. ''Do you have fourteen fingers..if you get my drift?''

Novak just blinked at her before waving both of his hands with a slight grin. ''Not quite-but.''

The girl laughed before she grabbed his hand and lead him through the dense throng of people. There was a large TV in the centre of the living room, the ones that they would use for display in shops and on it was an enhanced version of Andy Murray who was muttering into a microphone. Novak’s legs bumped into the girls and she stopped and raised an eyebrow at him. The words _retirement_ flashed on the screen. There were sentences after that, of course, stuff about how it might be his last tournament but only one word stood out;  _retirement retirement retirement._

''C’mon.'' She insisted, tugging on his hand. She hadn’t noticed the telly, it appeared no one had. The raucous noise went on, Rihanna played shamelessly and no one seemed to care that Andy Murray was going to retire.

''Noel.'' The girl said.

''Novak.” He corrected, although not unkindly. More like an afterthought, his mouth instinctively replying as Murray took a sharp inhale of breath and looked away from the camera. Like he was hiding something.

Something inside him leapt for joy. This was a good thing, right? This meant less competition and easier draws, easier titles. _Easy_. But yet it was hard to see Murray like that on the cusp of breaking down. Novak still felt bad.

“Brown eyes.'' The girl said, flicking his cheek with a sharp manicured finger. ''What are you looking at?'' She insisted glancing from Novak to the TV almost passively as if the sight of a forlorn Andy Murray did not phase her. And it occurred to Novak that it probably wouldn’t.

To the average man or woman, Andy Murray’s name did not hold any true meaning or significance, he was just another face in the public eye, nothing of substance. But to Novak, Andy had marked some of the most important parts of his life and he didn’t even know it yet; when they were spotty 12 year olds and Andy whooped his ass on the court, fuelling a desire deep within Novak that he didn’t even know existed to win, to be the best, to never be humiliated like that again. When the only time Novak had lost at a Wimbledon final was to Andy and he had felt the jeers of the British crowd even weeks later. When he beat Andy to win his first Roland Garros after years of trying. Andy was there. And now it seemed he was retiring. Those moments would never happen again.

It was a sad thought that Novak immediately decided he should distract himself with the beautiful lady in front of him, so he smiled and said. ''I’m not looking at anything.'' and allowed himself to be led by her and away from his thoughts.

 

***

 

Andy Murray had looked like a lion when he beat Novak at Flushing Meadows, his hair was wild and free, almost golden-ish in the daylight, like a strangely Murray-esque halo above his head that had protected him from the weird glare of the sunlight.

Novak concluded, that this was the only reason he had lost. Because Murray had the help of some guardian angel somewhere, not because Novak had just played seriously bad. But there was no way he was going to admit that, he was supposed to _always_ be better than Murray.

Even then, after the trophy ceremony, at the players dinner, when Andy made his speech and even graciously gave credit to Novak, he had scowled and stared down at his red wine whilst Jelena had pinched his arm from beside him.

He had vowed to himself to never lose to Murray in a Slam Final ever again, and whilst it had happened the next year at Wimbledon, he subsequently beat him in numerous Australian Open finals.

It made him feel better, when, at the 2016 Australian final, instead of looking like a lion, Murray had looked like a mice, scared and resigned to the fact that he would never win that slam and Novak had liked that it made him feel good.

And afterwards, at the players dinner, Novak never said anything gracious about Andy, said nothing about Andy at all. And Novak had liked that too.

 

***

 

Why was he so bothered?

Andy Murray retiring was a good thing for tennis, really. Now,the British media wouldn't be able to push the narrative of Murray being part of a “Big 4.” and Wimbledon crowds would have no reason to boo every other player who wasn't Scottish and bashed their racquet against the back of his shoes before every return game.  

But in fact, and Novak was sure, the main reason he was bothered wasn't the fact that Andy Murray was retiring, it was the _timing_ of his doing so. Why had he announced that he was retiring just before the tournament and was selfishly going to steal all of the headlines? It was annoying. It annoyed _him._

“Doesn't it annoy _you_ ?” He posed the question to Roger Federer whilst they were stuck opposite each other at the Sunnyside Cafe. The word “stuck” being used as it was a complete PR move to convince people that they didn't actually _hate_ each other, as so widely reported.

There was a flash from outside signifying the presence of the paparazzi so it appeared that it was working.

Roger looked cranky that Novak had even spoke, to be perfectly honest. They never typically talked in these situations, with Roger preferring to watch Netflix movies on his phone whilst Novak swiped through apps mindlessly.

Okay, so whilst they didn't _hate_ each other they definitely didn't like each other either. But then again who did Roger Federer _actually_ like? Novak was convinced he was the modern day Ebenezer Scrooge except with the reverse transformation. He'd gone from one of the most liked players on the tour to one of the most reclusive and no one even knew _why_.

There had been rumours that it had been a girl that had broken his heart once upon a time but then again there were rumours that Dominic Thiem had a long lost son who went to school in Iceland and apparently Stefanos Tsitsipas had 100 nude pictures of himself on his phone (that one could be true.) So these things had to be taken with caution.

“It would have been better to announce it _after_ the tournament,” Novak persisted. “Once I've lifted my fifteenth slam of course.'' He added. He wasn't sure how much he meant that last part but he'd said it anyways to gauge the reaction from Federer. They were still rivals, after all. Federer blinked at him before glancing back down at his phone. “Well, I'd rather you win than anyone else.'' He grits out reluctantly.

Novak raises an eyebrow,  surprised. “And yourself?”

“Let's be honest,here.” He says, running a hand through his hair. “I'm not winning this slam again. Ever.” Novak stared at him carefully, not believing a single word. What was this, reverse psychology? Marian had warned him about this, like playing a game of chess and sizing up what your opponent was going to do next. Unfortunately,  Federer looked quite serious, so this wasn't as simple as it appeared to be.

“I don't believe you.” Novak said, leaning his arm against the table. They were both sat right beside the large windows that paned from top to bottom, first victims to the swell of heat that was typical of an average day in Melbourne. The sun exposed the hard lines of Federer's face and made his brown hair illuminate gold, like some kind of fireball. With the Australian Open in a couple of days, tennis fever was infecting the city,  there had been billboards of Serena Williams, Rafael Nadal and despite his reclusiveness, Roger Federer because 1. He was the defending champion and 2. he was still _Roger Federer._

 _''_ You don’t need to believe me.” Federer said with a shrug. “I'd just rather you win it than..” he trailed off as his eyes darted behind Novak towards the door of the cafe.

With curiosity preying upon him, Novak was forced to twist his body around just so he could see the strange sight of Andy Murray and Rafael Nadal entering at that exact moment. They both appeared extremely casual for two men who happen to be millionaire tennis players in contrast to Novak and Roger who had designer watches on their wrists and gold chains around their necks. What were they even _doing_ here _together?_ Unless their agents had had the same idea, then there was no reason for them to be hanging out together. Unless, of course, unless they were actually _friends_.

Federer suddenly stood up sharply and Novak almost caught whiplash, turning quickly to look up at him. “Erm, what are you doing?” Novak demanded with a frown. He gestured towards his watch. “We have at least half an hour left to make this seem real.” If Roger left now in a huff for whatever reason, the headlines would probably go something along the lines of _Roger Federer storms away from enemy Novak Djokovic and the hatred continues!_ Which was exactly what they didn't ideally want.

“I'm leaving.'' Roger said casually, stating the obvious.

“But what about-what about the tuna sandwich?” Novak tried, somewhat frantically. “You barely touched it.”

“Bye, Novak.” Federer said with finality, striding away from the table and past Murray and Nadal who stopped to look at him. It was fortunate that the cafe wasn't packed at all with the odd elderly couple and crying child so the embarrassment of it all was limited with its impact. However the scene of Federer walking out led the other two tennis stars to notice Novak himself who was now, quite sadly stuck having lunch on his own.

He could see Murray debating on whether to join Novak at his table or sit elsewhere and eventually he decides on the latter, settling for waving at Novak instead. Novak just stares back rigidly, not sure whether he wanted to wave back or not. He got out his phone like he usually did when placed into unfortunate positions and started swiping through apps, going on Instagram and finding a recent post from Kyrgios on Murray retiring,  all sappy and sentimental the way Nick Kyrgios usually _never_ is. So Novak figures if Nick Kyrgios could post a tribute then surely he could do one too. People would be _expecting_ one anyways, seeing as they were the same age and closely associated with each other.

So he found a couple of pictures from the web and wrote some words trying to be as sentimental as he possibly could and came up with a pretty decent paragraph, if he did say so himself.

He posted it and then checked some of his notifications before placing his phone down at the table. He looked up then and caught Murray's eye who was gesturing at his own phone and mouthing “Thanks.” From across the room with a small smile.

 

***

 

Novak thinks the reason he never feels completely comfortable around Murray is because he's seen him in compromising situations and he isn’t quite sure what the formula is on how to behave after that.

On the court it's easy, he has a game plan and patterns, things he and Marian have worked on but off the court there is no “plan.” and he is completely lost.

It’s hard to forget what happened in November 2016, after Andy had beat him in the ATP finals and became the world number one, at the party afterwards which Novak had only gone too because he'd been so _mad, so utterly furious_ for losing so convincingly that he had gone to get drunk off his face and forget that it ever even happened. That time he had drank so much vodka that he'd almost kissed Stan's girlfriend which definitely didn't go too well.

Everyone had seemed extra happy at the party, Judy Murray was going around boasting it to as much people that she possibly could and the guests seemed more smiley than usual,like they were so desperately happy that someone else was finally number one instead of it almost always being Roger, Rafa and Novak.

But ironically, the new world number one was nowhere to be seen. It had been Nishikori who had suggested that they all start looking for him and whilst almost everyone else had agreed, Novak had sworn violently and turned away.

“Why should we look for him anyways?” Novak had grumbled. “Maybe he doesn't want to be found.”

He had stayed by the bar most of the night, becoming best friends with the barman called Pedro who was a big fan of Nadal and coffee and peanuts and Ed Sheeran and occasionally long plane rides. He had drank so much that his bladder suddenly protested at the abuse and forced him to stumble around for the toilets like a blind man.

He eventually found the universal stick figure and pushed the door open and spotted Murray in the corner, with his head tilted back whilst a man knelt at his feet and sucked him off. It was a miracle that Novak somehow didn't make a sound, but his eyes widened like saucers and he took several steps back so he was hidden in the shadows. The question is; why did he stay? He should have walked straight back out, yet he didn't. He stayed put and listened as Murray grunted out some colourful swear words whilst the slick sound of a mouth against a dick was utterly prominent. He tried not to breathe, though of course he didn't want to die so he tried not to breathe _too loudly_.

“Yeah.” Murray had said, in that painfully dry way of his. “ _Yeah_ .” _Yeahyeahyeahyeahyeahyeahyeah_ and Novak felt his hand shaking by his side. He was definitely sober now. He peeked again just at the moment that Murray's brows had twitched, his knees buckling slightly, his eyes flying open.

Novak had left at that point, causing a commotion as he struggled to pull open the door and accidentally knocked his leg onto one of the sinks. Novak often wondered if Murray ever saw him or not, if he had but was too drunk to remember, or if he had remembered but didn't want to embarrass him.

He's never looked at Murray the same way after that. It's not normal to know what someone looks like when they come and then it's not normal to think about it afterwards.

Maybe that's Novak's real problem with Andy retiring, the fact that he's retiring and all Novak can think is _I know what you look like when you come._ Even when he had beaten him in Doha 2017 all he could think was _I know what you look like when you come._ When he had been at the party when Andy announced his retirement on the TV, all Novak had thought was _i know what you look like when you come._

Things would never be the same again.


	2. Rafael.

When he proposes to Xisca in the Royal Botanic gardens he feels like a changed man. 

The  _ new  _ Nadal. Finally. Like a new chapter of his life is being written in a new font by a different person. He's happy, he is.  He even feels like changing his name to emphasise this point, maybe something like Pablo or Justin or Luke. Maybe not. 

But he changes the picture on his home screen to one of him and Xisca on holiday in Majorca, the one where they're both smiling at each other widely, right before they'd both tumbled into the sea and been swallowed up, resurfacing and then doing it all over again. 

Xisca liked the diamond ring he had bought for her, it was very big and perhaps slightly obnoxious but she liked it all the same and wore it everywhere with her like a tshirt. 

“Diamonds are  _ forever,  _ baby.” Xisca had said one night before kissing him sweetly. The word forever had felt heavy, but was a good kind of weight to carry around.  _ Forever.  _ Truthfully, nothing in life could last  _ forever  _ but you could always try to make them. 

He hears the news about Andy on a Sunday afternoon, when he's just come out of the shower, wet hair dripping past his face as he blinks at the scene of Andy delivering the sad news. 

That could be him next, truthfully. Because in reality, Rafael was certainly not a diamond, he certainly didn't last forever. Eventually, soon, his knees would fail completely and he would have to stop playing and he'd become a retired tennis player who commentated on matches like John McEnroe. Or he'd go into hiding like Pete Sampras.

But that was the great thing about the  _ new  _ Nadal, he doesn't think too deeply about anything. As Nike had once famously said “Just do it.”  So he made spontaneous trips to the Caribbean and South Africa and kisses Xisca on the streets of Melbourne to the delight of the locals and the paparazzi. He eats things that he's not sure he'll like and hangs out with people who he would usually never talk to and blasts Latino music at 2a.m whilst doing his daily twenty push ups. Uncle Toni is less than impressed but truthfully he's always been hard to please and Rafa assures him that he's absolutely fine just before the 2019 Australian Open. He  _ is  _ fine. 

The week before the tournament he takes Xisca shopping, they go to Chapel road and Smith street and return back to the hotel,with dozens of bags in hand and wide smiles on their faces. It's so easy to do things when you're rich and have connections, to just book a reservation or phone someone important. When they've dumped the bags in their hotel room they go to the hotel lounge and stuff their faces with white chocolate and soup, an oddly perfect combination, and when the chocolate smudges against Rafa's lips, Xisca giggles and uses her hand- the one with the diamond ring- to wipe it off. Rafa stares at her, thinking that it was so easy,  _ so easy.  _ So simple and safe and nice and fun and that's why they were going to get married. 

 

***

 

Things had never been simple with Roger, had never been easy.  Their whole relationship had felt like two inevitable trains destined to collide, destined to destroy each other. 

But before that they had loved each other, when they were 24 and 29, both at the top of the tennis world and later, on top of each other. Rafa had never been so obsessed and afraid of a human being at the same time. He didn't want Roger to feel like he had so much control over him and it had appeared that Roger had felt like that too so they both pissed each other off by flirting with other people, playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse before one of them would forfeit and they'd fall back in bed together. 

One time, they had been cooped up in a hotel in Paris, the red walls that confined them feeling like a shield rather than a weapon. Rafa had been flirting with both male and female guests at the hotel all night, aware that Roger had been quietly brooding in the background whilst sipping his wine and eventually, when Roger had had enough and went back to his room, Rafa had followed him like a puppy and kissed him as soon as the door had shut. 

They never spoke about why they were so intent on hurting each other, but secretly they both knew that it was their way of protecting themselves. Because really, what tennis player wanted to rely so much on another tennis player? But admittedly, that night had felt different. It was probably the fact that they were in Paris but every touch felt like it had a double meaning and because the walls had felt like a shield, Rafa had let his guard down, just this once. 

“Take off your clothes.” He told Roger, after pulling back from a kiss, they're lips wet and shiny and tingly. 

“Take them off for me.” Roger had said straight back. 

He had wanted to just tear off Roger's clothes but his hands had taken them off slowly instead. His hands unbuttoning the white shirt he had on with fumbling fingers, Roger watching him and breathing very slowly, the tan skin being revealed and the smattering of chest hair. Rafa knew that it didn't matter how many people he flirted with, none of them were like this. 

When he gets to the last button, Roger grabs his hands and says, “Stop.” Like it's too much, like Rafa unbuttoning his shirt is too intimate so he steps back and takes the rest off his clothes off himself. 

They kiss again after that, Roger pulling him onto the bed and removing Rafa's shirt and jeans in a hurried fashion. Like he knew, this was going to happen, Roger's got lube in one of the drawers nearby and his fingers touch Rafa gently, pushing in between his arse cheeks. Rafa inhales sharply and closes his eyes. 

Outside,some late night busker is playing a bad version of  _ we found love  _ on a violin and inside here Rafa knows that he loves Roger. He always has, to be honest. He opens his eyes and glances down at Roger who's looking up at him thoughtfully, brown eyes and all,like he's thinking about things too. 

Rafa decides to lay his cards on the table, all of them. He does, just then. He tells Roger that he loves him. 

This is the moment where things could change for them. Maybe they could finally stop playing around and be honest. Maybe they could be something special, a couple, they could take on the world together and give each other Christmas presents that only they knew the true meaning of, have lazy naked Sunday afternoons. All Roger has to do is say it back.  _ Say it and I'm yours _ , Rafa thinks. 

Roger doesn't say it back. Roger doesn't say anything at all. Why didn't Roger say it back? They missed the Moment and now they would resume their stupid little game until they ruined each other.

 

***

 

He starts off the tournament with a bang. 

It's a straight sets win against Duckworth and he hits a lot of winners, gets a lot of easy points on his serve. He loves the crowd and the areas sprinkled with the yellow and red of the Spanish flag, the fans who have his name written on their faces, cheering him on between changeovers. And even though, it isn't true, it feels like the whole of Australia is behind him. 

After his on court interview, he heads back to the changing rooms seeing Andy Murray in the corridor stretching his legs and arms. 

“Hey.” Rafa says avidly, pulling his Babolat bag over his shoulder . He always feels happy after a win, the sweat on his skin feeling satisfying rather than disgusting. Though of course he probably smells quite bad. 

Andy looks him up and down,  then says “Hi.” 

They both smile awkwardly, the elephant in the room that this would be Andy's last match in Melbourne hanging around like a pesky wasp. And what was Rafa meant to say here? Have fun on your last match? That somehow seemed too much of an insensitive way to put it. 

Then Andy let's out a huff of laughter and shakes his head. “Don't do that.” 

Rafa frowns. “Don't do what?” 

“Feel sorry for me. Look at me like I'm dying. Everyone keeps looking at me like that. I hate it.” he squats down on the floor before standing back up again. 

“Sorry.” Rafa says. “I didn't realise I was doing that.” he tried glaring at Andy instead and the Scotsman let out a snigger. 

“That's better. Don't wish me luck, either.” He adds, raising an eyebrow. “Just because I'm not in the top ten, doesn't mean we're not rivals.” 

Rafa smiles at that. In a way he does admire Andy, he's always had it tough competing in this era, but he's still got a great mentality, even now at the end.  _ The end _ ? It does sound quite ridiculous, now that Rafa thinks about it. Andy Murray wasn't dying and he wasn't dead. Andy Murray maybe wouldn't be able to play tennis anymore but that didn't mean he stopped being Andy Murray. He couldn't just be defined by this sport. There was so much more to him as a person. There was so much more to  _ all  _ of them as people. So many highs and lows and secrets and flaws. Tennis was a massive part of their lives but it wasn't the only part. 

“Congratulations, by the way.” Andy tells him a moment later. “You and Xisca. Finally one of us around here is getting married. I thought Federer would be first but I guess I was wrong.,” 

“Yeah.” Rafa says with a nod. “I guess you were wrong about him.” he manages to say this with a fairly neutral facial expression, and gives himself credit. “But anyways, “ Rafa says. “I don't want to waste your time. Plus, I really need to shower now.” 

Andy smirks. “Alright then. See you around, Rafa.” 

 

***

 

When Roger never said it back, Rafa was sure that the tracks their trains had been intended for, switched and the relationship between them headed in a completely different direction. 

Mostly, Rafa felt his ego had been bruised. He had put himself forward and told Roger how he felt and Roger hadn't said  _ anything.  _ Rafa hated that Roger had such a hold on him,  that despite it all, they would always end up fucking and wake up next to each other.  One day, Rafa decided that  _ he  _ wasn't  going to allow himself to be so weak to Roger so he decided that he was going to fuck someone else. It was such a childish thing to think of but it was only 5 years prior that he had been a teenager anyways, so he wasn't exactly the best at being mature. 

The day before he planned on sleeping with someone else to spite him, Roger showed up at his apartment nonchalantly with a hoodie pulled over his head. Rafa opened the door and said. “Fuck off.” 

“No.” Roger had said. He looked strangely sheepish in a way that Rafa had never seen before. But it was probably just a ploy to get Rafa to open his legs again. He wasn't buying  _ any  _ of it. He was tired of being made a fool of. 

“ _ No _ .” Rafa said. “You listen to  _ me.  _ Go away. I'm busy.” 

Roger scoffed. “Busy doing what?” 

“ _ Stuff _ , okay? Just go. Please.”  He was surprised when Roger sighed and conceded, walking back down the stairs.  _ Well done,   _ he told himself.  _ See Roger doesn't _ own you,  _ he doesn't have that power over you _ . 

He phoned one of his one night stands, David,  who'd he'd slept with a year and a half ago, and told him to come around the following evening. As strange as the idea was he was hoping sleeping with someone who wasn't Roger, would help all these feelings to go away, to disappear.  

When David turned up, he seemed very eager and excited, like he'd been waiting for Rafa to call him for ages. Whilst David kissed him, he couldn't help but cringe and so skipped the kissing part to the fucking bit. David had energetic hips and he was good looking but it wasn't enjoyable on Rafa's behalf. He felt like it was an outer body experience and he was watching himself disappointedly, wanting himself to enjoy it and like it. This couldn't be it, surely. Sex couldn't only be enjoyable with Roger Federer. Surely not. Just at that moment as David grunted into his shoulder, the doorbell went. 

“Who's that?” David had asked, understandably irritated. 

“M not expecting anyone.” Rafa said, puzzled, pulling himself out from under David and slipping on his black dressing gown. He trudged towards the door and inhales sharply at the sight of Roger. 

“No.” He says instinctively, ready to close the door. Roger places a foot in the gap between the door, halting it in its place. Rafa notices that he's wearing the same white shirt from the night where Rafa had told him he loved him and almost sobs. 

“I listened to you yesterday.” Roger says determinedly. “Now you listen to me. I love you, alright? I love you so much that I can't think about anything else. I love your stubbornness and your hair and-and smile..” he trails off when he sees Rafa shaking his head. 

_ It's too late _ , he thinks.  _ He said it too late.  _

“What's wrong?” He asks concerned. Rafa feels like crying. He's wanted Roger to say it for so long that he eventually gave up and now..And now. 

“Rafa?” David demands, strolling towards the door,at least having the decency to put on his boxers. 

Roger goes eerily silent as he stares at David and Rafa wants to disappear, to sink into the ground. “Please say you didn't.” Roger says after a while, his voice suddenly gravely. “ _ Tell me _ you didn't.” 

Rafa just stares at him uselessly, knowing he can't lie. And even if he tried, Roger would be able to tell anyway. It was the worst moment of his life. Their trains had collided. They had destroyed each other in the end. 


	3. Andy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i enjoy writing this so much x

The British media were going crazy. He was suddenly dominating the 10 O'Clock news in a way he'd never done before-not even when he had won Wimbledon-the people behind the scenes deciding that he was way more important than anything to with Brexit, the US government shutdown or the ongoing yellow vest riots in Paris. 

It was certainly ironic, Andy thought, that they hadn't cared much about him in the last few years when he had started his tragic fall from grace, yet here they were now that he'd landed on the ground, now that his hip was forever fucked, here they were with grins and proclaims of  _ Sir Andy Murray,  _ circling him like birds, like predators ready to eat their prey. 

His mother loved it, of course, she had been out of the spotlight recently because Andy hadn't been doing too well and Kyle Edmund had rose to prominence as the new face of British tennis, but now she had a reason to be in the public eye again, now she had a reason to touch up her roots and wear makeup and become the  _ Judy Murray  _ that the media knew and loved, the supportive single mother doing it all on her own.  She was a master at creating images, illusions, like a trick of the light, made everyone believe that Murray was the  _ golden child,  _ so well behaved and knowledgeable, made everyone believe that they were the perfect family. 

Sometimes he believed it himself that they were, when they'd all sit around the table at dinner, and laugh about things that didn't matter. Judy's laugh being the loudest, laughing like Andy had never brought home a boy the night before, like she didn't have a problem with it.

“It's not the fact that you like men.” She would always say, offended like Andy had said anything in the first place. “It's the  _ type  _ of men you like. A couple of years ago it was Nick Kyrgios, for God's sake, and now you just have one night stands with the most  _ outrageous _ of men. It's bad for your public image darling.” 

So Andy never did anything “outrageous”. In public, at least. Outside of the public eye, he often loved pissing his mum off by bringing home guys he knew she would hate to birthday parties and Christmas lunches. It had been hilarious when he had brought Nick Kyrgios home for Christmas in 2016 and his mother had groaned as soon as Nick had left and had said that the only thing worse than a son bringing Nick Kyrgios home would be a son bringing Novak Djokovic home. 

It isn't like he really has the time for relationships anyways, he spends half of his days on court, working on his movements and fitness for the Australian Open. He figures if it's going to be his last one, he may as well go out with a bang. A tennis court has always felt like a second home to him, like a second skin, on there no one can tell him what to do or what to think. His mum cant scold him because she'd hate to look bad on camera and Jamie rarely shows up to Andy's matches because he thinks he brings bad luck. 

So he's all on his own, you see. All on his own with Roberto across the net and the navy blue painted court. It isn't Rod Laver Arena, but the place is packed, all these people being sold the idea of a  _ story, roll up! come and see Murray play his last match ever!  _ A bit like a pantomime, he thinks, and he's supposed to be the main event. 

The first two sets go by quickly and Roberto has barely broken a sweat, he looks relaxed, like he's used to this. Bastard, Andy thinks. If he was healthy, If he didn't have a slight limp whenever he walked, things would be the other way round. Roberto is lucky. He's a lucky bastard. 

He sits down at the short break between the second and third set and grabs his towel, drying the sweat off his face. The crowd look desperate for the fairytale story they were promised, David defeating Goliath sort of stuff. Then somebody shouts “Come on, Andy!” With a hoarse voice, like they've been cheering for him all night despite the chances of him winning this match being extremely low and he picks himself back up, jogs to the the baseline like it's the first set and holds his serve. He continues to hold his serve and so does Roberto and so they head to the tiebreak. 

Murray knows hes going to win the set, it's the combination of the momentum, the crowd, and the fact that Robero looks nervous. He wins the third set and then the fourth. And suddenly he wants it badly, he wants to win  _ so badly _ , he can imagine the morning headlines if he pulled it off, his mum's pleased smile, the other players who would have been watching the match, he wants the fairytale story too. 

But his body doesn't, his hips fail him again and that's it. Its over.

 

***

 

People don't usually hide when they've beaten their biggest rival to become the new world number one at the world tour finals but Murray doesn't do things the usual way. 

He can't stand to be around the exaggerated smiles of all his mother's friends and her family as they congratulate him at the after party. It's like their saying _finally, you've done something worthy_ , _finally you can come to our parties, finally you're not just Andy Murray, you're the world number one. The best._ It shouldn't feel this shit to be at the top of men's tennis. There shouldn't be grown men betting on how long Murray would hold on to the number one when he'd literally _just_ gotten it. 

After a few meaningless talks with important people, he decides to hide in the toilets, sitting by the sink and staring at himself in the mirror blankly. The low thrum of Drake is audible and so is the clinking of glasses, the chorus of  _ cheers _ . 

A tap is dripping so he turns it off. When he looks up, Nick Kyrgios is there. He looks as wacky as he usually does, eccentric with his hair and infamous eyebrow slit.  Judy hates him. Andy has always had a certain curiosity for men his mum didn't like. Its was similar to not telling a child to touch fire. You'd have to expect the opposite outcome. 

Nick didn't even qualify for the 2016 world tour finals but he showed up anyways,  even if he wasn't particularly wanted, he loved a good party. “Why's the main man hiding?” He teased with a white grin. “People are looking for you.” He adds, when it's evident Andy isn't going to answer. 

“Who?” Andy asks, out of instinct. 

“Everyone.” Nick says. “Well, except Novak. He doesn't seem too keen.” 

Andy isn't particularly surprised by that. He was convinced by this point that Novak Djokovic hated him. Judy was delighted when Andy had told her one night, because now she had a proper reason to hate Novak even more as if the fact that he was substantially better than Murray wasn't enough. She was convinced that he had robbed Andy of at least 5 grand slams. 

“Guess what?” Nick said, quirking an eyebrow. 

Andy entertained him with a roll of his eye. “What?” 

“We're alone. Just you and me and these empty bathroom stalls.” he took a couple of steps forward. 

Andy looked him up and down and then huffed out a laugh. “Let me guess, you want to give me a blowjob?”  

Nick shrugged. “Maybe. Let me take a look at your dick first.” 

Andy laughed thinking he was ridiculous but pulled down his jean's anyways. He was kind of surprised when Nick got down on his knees but there was no way he was going to turn down a blowjob so he didn't object. The angle was awkward, so Andy got up and stood by the wall in the corner. He tilted his head back when his dick hit the back of Nick's throat. This felt like a massive middle finger to everyone at the party who would be expecting him to be socialising, yet here he was under all of their noses getting a blowjob from Nick Kyrgios. 

He climaxed just as he heard a loud bang from nearby. Even though the person had sprinted out, he had caught sight of smooth black hair and slightly tanned skin. He had no doubt that it was Djokovic. Had Djokovic been  _ watching  _ him? How long had he been standing there?  He pulled his dick back into his jeans and rushed out the door a couple of moments later. 

Novak was by the bar frantically drinking shot after shot, like he was a madman. Andy was  _ sure _ , Novak had seen. Otherwise, why else would he be acting so jittery? He was just about to talk to him when Judy grabbed his arm like she'd been searching for him all night. 

“Where have you been?” She demanded. She glanced at Novak who was drinking mercilessly. “Look at that, honey. See that? You've broken him. This is how it was always supposed to be. You being the number one and him chasing  _ you. _ ” She smiled at a woman passing by. “This is what greatness is.” She told him. “Enjoy it. Don't waste time talking to him. He's  _ second best. _ ” She looped her arm through his before introducing him to other faces who he wouldn't remember in the morning. 

 

***

 

It felt weird being out of a major tournament so early on. Like he didn't know what to do with his hands or his feet, where to hang around or who to talk to because everyone else was still in the competition. Andy didn't particularly want to sit around watching other players, watching as they all won their matches convincingly, walking around the courts with their magnificent hips that weren't broken, so he decided to wander around. 

It occurred to him, as he entered the lift, that he never really had the time to explore the cities he travelled to on the tour. One minute he was in London then Dubai, the scenery was always changing, time was always rushing by, he was 29 then and now 31. He felt old, even though he was far from it, this feeling obviously being compounded by the fact that his body was breaking down, he felt like he would glance in the mirror one day and find wrinkles and grey hair. 

Plagued by this disastrous image, he went to gym, loving the feeling of pain in his muscles as he lifted weights and did push ups. It was something akin to stretching your racquet out for a serve you knew you had no chance of returning, like losing 5 Australian open finals in a row. 

He took some pictures with people who recognised him and signed some t-shirts. He wasn't aware that people here even cared about him like that. But then he realised that they probably didn't, they cared about getting a picture with  _ Andy Murray,  _ not him. 

After, he goes to the Royal Botanic gardens and lies down on the grass staring up at the bright blue sky, the hints of pink as afternoon dawns. It's the problem with humanity, he thinks, that they never take the time to appreciate things around them, and then they're gone all too soon and we're flooded with regret. 

His mind drifts to Novak for some reason. Sometimes he regrets not talking to Novak about that night. He couldn't  _ not  _ remember it. Why had Novak been watching him? Did he like it what he saw? Did he like _Andy_? Did he run away because he was disgusted or because it was all too much? 

He hated not knowing. He hated that Novak barely talked to him anymore. Like they were strangers. It had definitely affected the dynamics of their friendship. He wasn't sure whether Novak wanted to kill him or be friends with him. Wasn't sure whether to go closer or stay away. He hears from some strangers passing by that Novak won his match and despite it all he's happy for him. 

 

***

  
Andy's mum hasn't liked Novak since they were 12. That was the last time Andy was the superior player. She had convinced herself it was the start a revolution, the start of  _ Scotland's _ revolution that they were finally going to have a successful Male tennis star. Sort of the way Portugal had Ronaldo and Argentina had Messi. 

Judy had told him not to shake Novak's hand at the net but Andy tried to do it anyways because he didn't really like being told what to do. 

Novak Djokovic looked deflated underneath the sunlight, his black hair sweaty and a prominent frown gracing his features. Twelve year old Andy Murray thought he looked cute, sort of like a teddy bear and he didn't know it then but it was the first time he would ever find a boy attractive. 

“Good match.” Andy had said, putting a pale arm forward to shake his hand, despite his mother's slight glare. Novak had squinted at him with brown eyes, glanced down out his outstretched arm and then back up to Andy's face, the same dry expression never leaving his face. 

“But it wasn't a good match.” He responded bluntly. 

Andy shook his head with a dopey grin. He wasn't exactly the best at articulating, he was in bottom set for English. Sport was more of his forte. 

“I meant it was a very respectful and honest match. I think that's what you're meant to say anyways? I'm not sure but Roger Federer says it all the time. You know Federer right? He's only 18 but I can tell he's going to be really good. My mum says his hair's a bit girly but-” he stops once hes realised that he's rambling and Novak is just blinking at him, clearly unimpressed. “Sorry.” Andy says. 

“I'm going to win next time.” Novak says confidently with a sniff, walking towards his sports bag. Andy notices that his white trainers are scruffy and his laces are undone. “I'm going to win next time, you'll see.” He glances back at Andy as if he's expecting some sort of protest.   


But Andy isn't stupid. He knows he won't win everytime against Novak but he'll win sometimes at least. “Sure.” Andy says with a shrug. 

“Maybe I'll beat you in a final.” Novak continues, like he's forcing the image to come to life in his head. “A  _ big  _ final. With thousands of people. And then I'll say  _ good match. _ Would you like that?” He turns to Andy with a slightly raised eyebrow. 

It's like hes trying to intimidate Andy but Andy's tough. He was at Dunblane School when a man started shooting children, he's seen the worst so Novak is definitely  _ not  _ intimidating. 

“I'd like that.” Andy says instead. Novak looks surprised but recovers by plastering a glare back onto his face, picking up his bag and storming off. 

It's remarkably the longest conversation they've ever had, every one since then is littered with tension and other feelings. But now Andy's 31 and more mature, he wants to actually talk to Novak, wants to actually be friends with him. There's too much history between them for the two to act like half arsed strangers.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooo rogeer coming up next


	4. Roger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i've taken so long, life got busy but i'll be back on track with updates.

“So, Roger.” an obnoxious American reporter begins, voice obviously louder than the quiet Japanese woman and the English bloke in the corner that had spoken previously. “What do you think of your next opponent, Taylor Fritz, he's one of our nation’s brightest young talents. How does he compare to your twenty-one year old self?”

 _He doesn't_ , is what Roger thinks instinctively. Like most of the next generation, he’s way too self involved and narcissistic and privileged because he’s American and they help fund all of their stars whilst Roger had to work his socks off. He doesn't compare because at 21 Roger had won Wimbledon and beaten Pete Sampras and was mixing it with the likes of Agassi and Roddick for the number one ranking. Of course he doesn't say this though, he laughs politely and gives something along the lines of “Bright future.” And “Good mindset.” In reality, it's a Friday evening in Australia which means its seriously hot and he's stuck here at a press conference with his shirt clinging to his skin, a distinct smell of sweat and there are too many questions being asked. People have a certain fascination with him but he's really not that special at all. Maybe if he started smashing racquets like Sascha Zverev then they'd leave him alone.

“Roger, what are your thoughts on Nadal's engagement?” The same American reporter demands.

It's a dumb question asked by a dumb person. It isn't like he's going to openly say he thinks it's a terrible idea, or that he still thinks about the sight of Rafa naked in the morning so the thought of him getting _married_ makes his skin physically crawl, the fact that when he'd heard the news he had ripped up some of the photos he still had of them, the sad truth that Xisca was better for Rafa because she wasn't stupid like Roger had been, wasn't afraid to admit her feelings and all that deep stuff.

So Roger's thoughts on Rafa's engagement were overwhelmingly toxic but of course he doesn't say this. He flashes a relaxed smile and taps his finger on the table in front if him like an annoying habit. “I'm happy for him. They've been together for a while so, yeah, that's good news.”

His cheeks ache from all the smiling he does after that, questions about his back, his age, his legacy, the topic of retirement floating around like a bubble after Andy Murray's recent announcement, his hopes for the year, hopes for the tournament, whether he would play the clay season, whether he realistically wanted to win 100 titles.  He's pleased when it's all over and he can leave.

It's a lonely car ride back to the hotel. The weather's gone a bit shit, so he rolls up the windows and leans his head against it, staring at the uneven pattern of rain pouring down. He gets out, mumbling a thanks to the taxi driver and then enters the lobby with a slightly damp coat. It's like the mood has perpetuated inside and even the staff seem quite sombre.

He's pressing the button in the elevator for the third floor, when a woman enters at the last minute. He wouldn't have thought of glancing twice at her, if he didn't catch a flash of the infamous diamond ring, when she reached past him to press for the 4th floor. It isn't like Xisca is purposefully showing it off or anything, the ring just stands out by itself, expensive and rich looking, like Rafa put loads of thought into it, like diamonds are forever.

Xisca catches his eye and smiles at him beautifully, like this is supposed to be the scene in movies where the beautiful girl appears and the cheesy music plays in the background, the exception being that Roger use to fuck her fianće on the regular making this nothing like a cliche at all.

She's holding multiple bags, so he assumes she's just gone shopping and the ends of her hair are curled and damp with the rain. “Roger.” She says, as the doors close and they defy gravity for a couple of moments. Her voice is light and carefree like she's really happy, like she'll be getting married soon. He knows his voice can't match that tone so he shuts up. “It's good to see you again.” She adds, after a bit.

It isn't like he hasn't run into Xisca at other hotels before, its happened in Shanghai and then again in Madrid and each time Roger's managed to come across like a complete dick. Maybe that's just part of his personality but it's a testament to Xisca how she still manages to plant a smile on her face every time they meet.

“Yeah.” He says, realising that he has to fill in the void of silence somehow. He places his hands in his pockets, plagued with the urge to do something simple.

They reach the third floor and Roger steps out into the hallway, suddenly able to breathe. He hears Xisca say goodbye but ignores it and keeps walking away. He can barely look at her.

 

***

 

They're in Paris for the masters but they both lose early on so they don't care anymore. Roger wants to go back up to his hotel room but Rafa has other plans so they end up at the bar with glasses of red wine clutched between their fingers. Rafa looks so good like this, under the cool yellow lighting, with his curls touching his cheeks and a lingering smirk on his face.

They both know how this goes.

Rafa flirts with other people,  Roger leaves, Rafa follows, they both have sex and try to forget about it in the morning. Even though Roger knows the blueprint, it still annoys him when Rafa flirts with some guy in his twenties, so he finishes two glasses quickly to swallow the feeling of jealousy.

“More wine, sir?” Someone in a suit inquires, a tray of wine glasses in one hand.

“Sure.” He says easily, picking up the one nearest to him before turning back to Rafa who's talking to a pretty girl now. This whole damn hotel is filled with beautiful people, like they've all been ripped out of pages from magazines and brought to life. The lady with blonde hair was taken from Hello Magazine, the guy with short black hair was taken from The Sun and Rafa, he was definitely taken from Vogue.

It's when Rafa winks at the lady with blonde hair that he decides to leave to his room. He takes the stairs, and slides in his keycard. He isn't surprised at all to see Rafa behind him when he turns around.

They blink at each other for a moment, Roger silently holding his breath and then Rafa leans forward to kiss him. There's the familiar distinct feeling of drowning, which always happens. Like Rafa is pushing him down to the seabed of an ocean, like an insurmountable force and he's falling, falling falling. And Rafa is _letting_ him fall.

Rafa tells him to take off his clothes, he's whispering for some reason, like speaking too loudly would ruin the mood.

“Take them off for me.” he says back instinctively. He doesn't want Rafa to see that his hands are shaking.

When Rafa unbuttons his shirt it's all too much, too domestic,a glimpse into what they _could_ be, taking each other's clothes off like this all of the time, like magnets who can't stay away from each other, it's all too overwhelming so Roger takes a step back, removing his shirt by himself.

They kiss again after that. Rafa is more insistent than usual, his hands finding Roger's chest, like he's trying to tell him something. He tells him later on when they're both naked, he tells him that he loves him. Roger thinks he's joking at first so he doesn't reply but then he glances up at Rafa and finds that he's deadly serious. Rafa _loves_ him.

He doesn't know what to do or say. Or, he knows what to say but can't quite say it. He's not ready to say it back yet. He feels like he isn't _ready._ Not ready for something so intense, not ready to say I love you back. By the time he realises he's ready, Rafa fucks someone else. Nothing hurt more than that.

 

***

 

It isn't that he hates Novak Djokovic. He just doesn't _like_ him. Of course, he barely knows him and all he has to derive a perception of him is from the media which notably _isn't_ the best of sources. But still, Roger Federer doesn't particularly like Novak Djokovic.

This point is made more prominent by the fact that during their PR stunt all he can do is ramble about Andy _bloody_ Murray. He rages about how Andy was annoyingly praised as some sort of hero when people retired all the time.

“What makes him so special?” Novak demands, irritated. “What makes _him_ so different? He's getting more headlines than I am.”

“Maybe that's because you're boring.” Roger says bluntly. He does most things ‘bluntly’ these days. It feels like nothing matters anymore since Rafa.

Novak glares at him. “I'm not boring. I go to more parties than _you_ do.”

“Maybe I go to secret parties.” Roger counters. “That's why you don't hear about it. Maybe my life is amazing and I've never been happier.”

Novak fixes him with a skeptical look at that and moves the glass of Fanta in his direction. Roger stares up at him in confusion. “Whenever I'm lying I drink fizzy drinks. You should try some.”

Roger rolls his eyes and pushes the can straight back. “So I'm lying.” He admits. “But who's life is amazing, really?”

Novak shrugs and glances around the cafe, a different one this time. More low key. “Why did you storm off last time?” he asks instead of allowing the conversation between them to dwindle down the way it usually did. Trust Novak to ask such an annoying question too.

“Because I hate this.” he tries, only partly a lie, waving vaguely between them. “Pretending. PR stunts.”

“Oh.” Novak says, sounding mildly disappointed.

It makes Roger feel slightly bad. “Well I don't _hate_ it but, well-”

“You hate me?”

“We're not exactly friends.”

“Maybe we have more in common than you think.”

“That we both enjoy saying the word maybe?”

“Maybe.” says Novak with a small laugh. “I read somewhere that people who keep saying _maybe_ are cowards. That we don't fight for what we truly want or that we fight for what we want but it's too late.” 

The words hit too close to home for Roger. And looking up at Novak, it's like he feels the same way. Maybe Novak's right. Maybe they have some things in common. The mood feels to somber at the moment, he doesn't particularly want to dwell on his missed opportunity with Rafa so he decides to lighten the topic.

“Andy's retirement party is in a couple of days.” He says, quirking an eyebrow. “You'd think no one would turn up, considering the fact that its during a major but a lot of people are coming.” He stares at Novak expectantly, the words _what about you_ implied implicitly rather than explicitly.

Novak scoffs. “If he even wants me there.” He shrugs his shoulders.

“Why wouldn't he want you there?” Roger asks with a frown. ''He gets along with everyone.”

“Things are different, that's all.” Novak murmurs vaguely. “It's different between us.”

 

***

  
The first time Rafa makes his first public appearance with Xisca is in 2014.

Roger isn't expecting it, that's what bothers him the most, he isn't expecting it when he turns up with her at the BBC's Sports Personality of the year awards, him dressed in a suit that looked as soft as velvet and her in red, like a flame, like something beautifully destructive.

He doesn't even think he'll win any of the awards but it's nice to show up for events like these. His date was Mirka who wore a white lace dress and tied her brown hair up into a ponytail. They were only friends so he hadn't kissed her on the red carpet even when the photographers had been yelling furiously at him to do so.

Rafa had kissed Xisca. That's how he knew it was real.

“Do I look fat in this dress?” Mirka had asked, slightly self consciously, angling her body just so in Roger's direction so he could view how the material hugged her body.

“No.” He said,  scarcely noticing, eyes drifting towards Rafa's hazel ones. He was looking at him too, glancing at Mirka and then back at Roger with prying eyes.

Roger wants to laugh and go _isn't this silly? Isn't this silly, babe? Let's just kiss and make up, I'm sorry I never told you I loved you the first time and you're sorry you weren't patient enough for me to say it._ He wants to abandon Mirka, grab Rafa by the hand and run right out of this room, kiss each other under the darkening sky. But then Xisca is pulling Rafa's arm and smiling at him and Rafa's attention is stolen away from him because Rafa smiles back at her and the award ceremony begins.

Lewis Hamilton wins sports personality of the year and Cristiano Ronaldo wins Overseas Personality but Roger doesn't feel like he's truly there, just a ghost lingering on a chair next to a girl with the boy he loves so far out of reach.


	5. Andy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise profusely for my long break buy I am back and back for good now!

**Part Two**

“Cae sera sera!” yells Nick Kyrgios, loud above the bubble of personal conversations, raising a toast to Andy who smiles wearily back in return, eyes darting around for the familiar sight of dark, almost raven like, hair styled casually.

Judy Murray had rented out some random hall near the Botanic gardens and littered it with balloons and cakes and banners, an imminent theme of white and blue gracing the chairs and the walls and the guest's choice of clothing.

It distinctly felt like the world tour finals all over again, all these people surrounding him, hanging onto his every move like leeches, posing with him for pictures before turning away, using him as a poster boy for British tennis before disposing of him, finding something better to do like dancing with someone or arguing over the velvet cake on the big round table in the middle of the room.

Grigor slaps him on the back in a glorious display of masculinity and Kevin Anderson gives him a firm, crisp handshake, his wife smiling prettily at his side. It's almost midnight but no one plans on going to bed. Some of these people have matches tomorrow,  some of them don't. Maybe they're using it as an excuse to relax or maybe they're just using it full stop.

 _He's not here_ , his mind supplies sinisterly after his fourth time of scanning the room desperately. He scoffs to himself. As if Novak would even bother to show up. He'd done his part by posting a tribute on Instagram and he was probably preparing for his match the next day. Novak in grand slam mode was unstoppable sometimes.

“Darling.” His mum practically purrs once she catches him alone. “I have someone I'd like you to meet.”

Andy allows himself to be dragged by his mother towards a man with rugged blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He looks like a doll, one of those ones that belonged on the top shelf so children couldn't reach it. The man smiles at him politely. He looks so clean and polished, his white shirt looks uncomfortable, like the collar is scratching against his neck.

“This is Felix.” She says nodding at him proudly. “Thirty three. A lawyer. A _respectable_ man-”

“ _Mum.”_ Andy says, dying with embarrassment. “This isn't a dating show.”

Judy sighs exaggeratedly. “No, I know that I just thought-maybe you were considering settling down or-”

“Stop.” Andy says, fed up. “Just stop.” he turns to Felix apologetically. “Look mate, I'm sorry I just-have you seen Novak Djokovic?”

Felix looks flabbergasted and Judy's expression falls. “ _Djokovic.”_ They both say at the same time, with a similar unimpressed tone.

“Why on earth would you be looking for him?” Felix continues, raising a plucked eyebrow.

“You wouldn't understand.” Andy replied. He just wouldn't understand. _Neither_ of them would. Andy needed some kind of closure, answers for how weird Novak had been acting. Because after this, after the Australian open when would they run into each other again? Maybe he's here. Maybe Andy just isn't looking hard enough.

He abandons the conversation and weaves his way through some girls in blue heels and bumps into Rafa. He looks stylish as always, he had always been one of the best dressed on tour.

“Hey.” Rafa says, flashing a quick smile.“Hey-uh. Have you seen Roger?”

“Roger.” Andy repeats, mentally recalling all the faces he'd bumped into during the evening so far. “No, I haven't. Have you seen Novak?”

“No, sorry.” Rafa says with a small apologetic smile. He pauses, looks down at the floor and then up at Andy. “So-uh.” He begins. “Why are you looking for Novak?”

“Just stuff.” Andy shrugs, trying to play it off. “Why do you need to know where Roger is?” He asks right back.

"Just stuff.” Rafa says coyly, amusing him. It's sort of funny in a way, to be honest, both of them refusing to give too much away.

“Another toast to the man himself, Sir Andy Murray!” booms Nick Kyrgios suddenly, bursting their bubble, the mic being disproportionately loud. It's clear he's drunk off his arse. “For the memories.” He adds, raising a toast. “The _memories._ To your rebellious spirit, for doing things you shouldn't have, for fucking me on numerous occasions-"

There are gasps at that from around the room, spreading like wildfire and Andy widens his eyes, hisses at Nick to put the mic down.

“You didn't like sticking to the status quo.” He continues. “You couldn't be the perfect boy mummy control freak wanted you to be but Jesus Christ did you try.”

The mic is grabbed from him then by a woman, one of Andy's aunties and Grigor drags Nick away from the scene who's still muttering away and the sea of guests turn to look at Andy.

 

***

 

He's lying on the bed on his hotel room and staring at up at the chandelier on the ceiling thinking he'd rather focus on an inanimate object such as that rather than the deep rooted shame that now sat in his stomach.

The poor old British media had always slagged Nick Kyrgios off to the nines, they had seen him as a joke, a circus act- the main attraction and yet had had no idea that they're wonderful golden boy had slept with him a couple of times, had had no idea that the wonderful Judy Murray had contrived her image to perfection.

Andy thought that all masks had to slip away eventually anyways, even if you felt the hot shame in the short term.

The chandelier looked so pretty from this angle, gold and elegant like royalty, filled with the weight of expectation that it provided substantial light to premium hotel customers.

There's a sharp knock at his door. Like the person has decided to alert him of their presence in a rapid spur of the moment.

He opens the door without thinking and then doesn't know _what_ to think when he sees that it's Novak, long black coat soaked with rainwater. Had it been raining? Andy hadn't even noticed, but glancing at the window now he could see and hear it pouring down like the world was ending. Novak's hair is wet too. Its two am, so what the hell would he have been doing outside?

“I asked at the reception for your door number.” Novak starts, gesturing his hands in explanation. “I hope that's okay.”  

Andy blinks, taking the sight of him in properly, smooth tanned skin, the stubble on his chin that would never quite be more than that, his skinny legs covered with jeans.

When Andy doesn't reply, Novak looks slightly demoralised and scratches at his arm. “Sorry I couldn't make the party, I-”

“Don't make excuses.” Andy finds his voice to say. “Just say the truth; say you didn't want to come.”

Novak looks taken aback but then sighs. “I didn't want to come.” It's the first truth he's heard in a while from Novak. It's a start.

“You missed out. It was quite eventful.”

“So I heard.” Novak says ruefully.

“Already?” Andy says with a smile.

“News travels quickly.” Novak smiles back slightly.

Andy turns and walks back into the room. He's glad when Novak follows, shutting the door behind. Maybe he realises too that they both need to talk about stuff. That they both need to grow up.

“I saw you.” Andy says bluntly when they're sat on the bed he was provided with. Smooth white silk that stretches for what feels like miles. “I saw you watch me get a blowjob. And then you ran away. I saw that part too.”

“Andy..” Novak breathes in sharply, staring down at his feet from his position with his legs crossed.

“I'm sorry.” Andy says as an afterthought, realising may be he was a bit _too_ blunt. “I thought that if I could just _say_ it then it wouldn't be such a big deal anymore.” He places a hand on Novak's calf. “It isn't a big deal, Novak.”

Novak glances up at the chandelier, Andy stares at his side profile. The chandelier makes his eyes look like jewels.

“I can't look at you sometimes.” He admits after a while. Another truth. They're getting somewhere. “It feels..intrusive, almost. Like I was invading or something. I can't stop thinking about it.” Novak's still avoiding his gaze, so Andy gets up and turns off the light. All he can see now is shadows.

“You can look at me now.” Andy insists, climbing back onto the bed.

Novak's head tilts down. It's dark but he can feel Novak staring at him. Like the light had been stopping him this whole time. It's so much easier to do and admit things in the dark.

“Andy.” Novak utters, softly.

“Yes?”

“I'm actually quite sad that you're retiring.” Novak says.

It’s probably the biggest compliment of all the one's he's gotten. It's one thing coming from Nick Kyrgios and Grigor Dimitrov but Novak who he's actually played against at the highest level is a different thing entirely.

“So am I.” Andy says.

They're silent for a bit, Andy revelling in the pattern the rain makes from outside. “You owe me a handshake.” Andy says with a grin. “From when we were 12. Remember that?”

Novak laughs a bit. “Good match, you had said.”

Andy puts an arm forward.

12 year old Andy had started rambling at this point, so naive and innocent. Now Andy is so much stronger and more confident.

Novak shakes his hand, cold fingers from the weather brushing his skin, sending shivers down his spine.

Andy isn't sure how long they sit there, talking about things from the past, admitting truths to each other about their rivalry, the media, their friendship which had never been consistent, the dominant role of their parents.

Eventually they doze off, fingers skimming the other's as they lay down, an unasked question on the tip of Andy's tongue. There's so much to talk about. There's so much they missed out on.

 

**

 

He wakes up in an empty bed.

It shouldn’t be that much of a surprise, Novak has a match today so he probably snuck out a couple of hours ago. But Andy wonders what he was thinking as he left, whether he walked out without a glance, whether he ruffled Andy’s hair to annoy him, if he stared at their touching hands in wonder or disgust.

Andy can still feel their hands touching. Like little whispers against the thin hairs of his pale hand. He thinks its a sign. Andy wanted them to be friends again but maybe the universe wants them to be something more.

Outside, the rain has stopped and the sun has replaced it, thick rays of light beaming in sharply through the window.

He turns on his phone, goes on social media. People are talking about Nick Kyrgios’ antics at the party last night, people on Twitter expressing their thoughts with unparalleled honesty. Some think that it’s just Nick Kyrgios being Nick Kyrgios but others think that there may be some truth to what he’s saying. The Murray’s aren’t perfect at all. Not one bit.

Jamie sends him a text about coming for breakfast in the hotel lobby so Andy drags himself out of bed and takes a shower, brushes his teeth three times. There's something addictive about feeling clean.

The lobby is sparsely populated, there are staff dressed in uniform cleaning some tables and couples who have opted for some toast over lazy morning sex and at the back of the room is Jamie and Judy Murray, full glasses of water laid out in front of them.

Andy sighs as he approaches them. “I see.” Andy says, smirking. “Using Jamie to get me to turn up.”

Judy frowns sadly at him. “I just think we need to have a talk.”

“ _Right_.” Andy nods slowly and sits on the third seat at the table. Jamie smiles slightly at him, tongue sticking out slightly.

Judy takes a sip of water carefully. “So Felix called me an hour ago.” She begins.

Andy shakes his head in annoyance, ready to depart from the table when Jamie grabs his arm, causing him to stay. “Let her finish.”

Judy smiles gratefully at her other son. “So Felix called me and said that he was actually quite interested in pursuing a relationship with you..” Andy sniggers at her choice of words. “But, well. I told him he shouldn't bother.” She takes another sip of water, like the words are physically made her throat dry. “Because Nick Kyrgios was right yesterday. About me. Controlling. Possessive. _Obsessive-"_

She reached for her glass again and Andy pulled it away from her, willing her to go on, like an athlete being willed to the finish line. Judy blinks at him, her fingers itching to snatch it back but she concedes.

“As embarrassing as it was and it was _quite_ -but. It worked when you were younger, I told you who to hang out with, who to date and you listened. It doesn't work anymore. I see that now. I-” she pauses. “I saw how you spent the whole of yesterday looking for Novak. You think I don't notice but I do. I _do._ I can't control you anymore.” She says softly. “I have to let you grow up.”  

It feels like the whole room goes quiet once the last word falls from her lips but glancing around, Andy finds that no one seems to care are going about their business like Judy Murray hasn't just admitted that she realised she was wrong, realised she was doing too much to squeeze Andy into a box that he couldn't fit.

And thinking about it now, he spent the whole of yesterday looking for Novak, spent the whole night talking to him, and even know he thinks of Novak in the locker rooms with that constant frown on his face, like something's bothering him. He thinks about Novak a lot. He thinks about Novak all the time. And he didn't _even know_. But his mum did.

There's a loud cry from someone nearby and Andy glances to his left, sees all eyes focused on the main TV in the room where Roger Federer has just lost to Stefanos Tsitsipas.

“Shocker.” His mother says, sounding quite genuine for once. “If you were fit that would have been you, Andy. You would have taken him on no doubt. Federer's not the same. Have you noticed?”

Andy hums in agreement, quietly watching the disheveled figure as he walks off the court not even bothering to clap towards the audience.

He's not the same. But none of them are. They're older now, they carry more burdens when they walk on the court, they've got more experiences now; regret, heartbreak, devastation. They've got more to lose than when they were in their twenties with the whole world bowing down at their feets.

 

***

  
He tells Novak to come to his room again the following night, half expecting him not to show up like their renewed friendship was something more flimsy than concrete. A house on the ocean rather than land.

Novak shows up, though. He's dressed casually in a red shirt and jogging bottoms, a grey beanie pulled over his hair causing him to resemble a cool teenager from the 90s.

Andy had watched him on TV beat Medvedev with the crowd against him, a smattering of applause whenever he hit a great shot contrasted with a roar when Medvedev would get lucky with a net cord.

“Does it bother you?” Andy asked as they sat on his bed once again, the TV on courtesy of Novak's request. Andy thinks it's because he still feels weird around him, that somehow the background noise of voices on the telly is more soothing than a stifling silence.

“No.” Novak replies, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Andy stares at him hard, looking for signs that he's lying.

Novak raises an eyebrow defensively. “It _doesn't_.” He insists. “I mean it's just a role, isn't it?”

“What d'you mean?”

“Well I'm the villain, Roger's the hero and Rafa's a fighter. The media gives us roles and we end up just living up to it.” He shrugs after, like there's nothing he can do about it.

“Then I'm what-the underdog?”

Novak glances at him briefly. “Yeah, I guess you are. You're likeable.”

“But that's not true, is it?” Andy begins. “We aren't that one dimensional. You can be the hero and the villain _and_ the fighter. You don't just _have_ to be the villain, Novak.”

Novak stares at the television blankly before laughing. “Look at you Andy,” he shakes his head. “You see the good in everyone, even Nick Kyrgios.”

“I see the good in _you._ ” Andy states firmly. He clearly surprises the younger man at that, Novak throwing a masked stare in his direction. “Don't you get it? All those times you fucked me over when we were younger and I never hated you, not even once, not even when my mum did.”

Novak shifts like he's going to get up and Andy bites his cheek, thinking he's said too much, thinking he's ruined everything. But then Novak turns to face him crossing his legs over each other, like they're in back in primary school again. He looks at Andy earnestly.

“Not even when I beat you at every Australian open final?”

Andy shakes his head. “Annoyed, sure. But not even then.”

“Why don't you hate me?” Novak demands, almost petulantly like a child.

“Why should I?” Andy questions back.

“Everyone else does.” Novak says with a shrug, before fixing Andy with a leveled stare.

“I'm not everyone else.” Andy says and theres a pause after, like the pause should be filled with some sort of action, like Andy leaning forward to kiss him or something. But Andy stays dead still, hands dangling uselessly at his side.

Novak gets up then, mutters something that Andy can't hear and leaves, unknowingly tugging Andy's heartstrings along with him.


	6. Roger

It feels like a lifetime ago when this time last year he had won the Australian Open. It felt like _two_ lifetimes ago.

It felt like joy and success and greatness, it had felt like proof that he would be okay without Rafa because he could still win grand slams, it had felt like he was in his twenties again with the world bowing down at his feet, and now.

And _now_.

He felt like his age, for once, tired and weary, the constant and throbbing twinge in his back, the few lines on his face, his empty bed and bitter heart.

He'd been beaten by a kid, Medvedev was youthful and alive and Roger had been genuine at the net, he knew the cameras had zoomed in, eager to gauge his reaction and he had genuinely felt happy for him. It felt like the changing of the guards or something akin to it. That had been the headlines anyways. _The changing of the guards_.

“Roger?”

His body froze instantly, although maybe it had already been cold. The hotel's indoor pool was unforgiving in its temperature but Roger was sure it was exactly what he needed.

He didn't have to turn around to see who had spoken. He had heard that voice millions of times to know. He clenched his toes before relaxing his face.

“Roger?” Rafa said again.

Why was he saying it like it was a question, Rafa knew it was him.

“Oh, hey.” Roger replied, stunningly casual. He'd even impressed himself.

He still didn't turn around though, he refused to. He _couldn't._

The indoor pool was empty, no one else was around, almost like God Himself had planned this very moment on purpose to torture Roger's soul.

He could feel Rafa's presence behind him, intruding and calm the way he usually was. Or at least, the way he had _been_. Did Roger still know him now? Was he the same Rafa? Or had he changed with the years, with the seasons, and with Xisca?

Roger sunk his chest into the water, waiting. Waiting for Rafa to speak or leave or anything else. Moments passed.

“I-” Rafa started then stopped like an engine. “They said no one was here.”

 _Guess I'm no one_ Roger thought bitterly. _Get knocked out and suddenly no one remembers who you are._  

“It's fine.” Roger says, his voice sounding distant, like his words are coming from somewhere else. He still can't turn around.

“I'll go.” Rafa states. He can probably sense the energy hanging in the air limply.

Roger doesn't object, curls his toes underwater more. He hears footsteps on the tiles and only then does he peek a glance. Rafa is wearing black shorts that hug his waist and he is shirtless with a blue towel slung over his shoulder. Maybe he stares too long or maybe Rafa has some sort of sixth sense because he stops, turns on his heels and stares right back.

 _Hot_. Roger feels hot all of a sudden, the strangest of feelings contrasting with the coldness he feels from the pool.

Rafa breaks the silence first. “Isn't this great?” He asks, lips turning up to a smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes. “It worked out for both of us in the end. We both got what we wanted.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Didn't we?”

And what the fuck is Roger supposed to say to that? How is he meant to respond? What does that even mean? Why does Rafa look so good standing there? There's too many thoughts in his head and not enough room for them all.

“Is that what you think?” He asks neutrally. His neck begins to ache from the awkward angle, so he turns his whole body around, the sound of the water moving with his action seems out of place.

Rafa blinks twice at his response. “You answered my question with a question.” he says, eyebrows furrowed. Then after a pause. “You didn't even answer my question.”

Roger breathes in deeply and then exhaled through his nose. It feels like time is tiptoeing around them silently, waiting for one of them to crack. It's far too mutual of a conversation for exes. There's usually swearing and cursing and anger but there's none of that now.

“You won't like my answer.” Roger admits finally.

Rafa swallows hard at that and fixes Roger with a scrutinizing stare, he's reading between the lines and working it out. This time, Roger's played his card first, this time Roger says it first. And this time, he's too late just like last time. _He's_ getting married for God's sake.

“Congratulations, by the way.” He adds staley, _meaninglessly_. He doesn't sound one bit convincing. “Getting married,huh? It worked out great for you.” once the words start pouring out he struggles to stop. It feels like therapy, like counselling, like pouring out everything he's bottled inside. “You've got it all now, haven't you? She's beautiful too, you both fit together so well. Ever since I-”

“Stop.” Rafa says, quietly. “Don't talk about her. You _don't get_ to talk about her-"

“It's crazy how life is.” Roger persists, not even talking to Rafa anymore, but himself. “It teeters on moments, on single moments. If I had told you, if I had told you I loved you back, then things would have been-”

“You can't change the past, Roger. And even if you could, I'm glad you didn't say it back. Because I'm happier now. I'm moving on and..” he bites down at his bottom lip, instantly catching Rogers attention, ”And so should you.”

Roger looks at him, wondering if he really means it but Rafa's already averting his gaze and walking away.

 

***

He's still thinking about his encounter with Rafa the next day, the words they had exchanged with a passive sort of aggression, the hushed silence that had danced around them with vigour.

He could almost lie to himself, pretend it was like the way it was before; Roger waiting for Rafa with bated breath and goosebumps along his arms, Rafa would join him in the pool with loose limbs and a heavy gaze and Roger wouldn't hesitate before leaning in, allowing their breaths to mingle and lips to touch, he could really almost lie to himself.

 _Almost_.

The hard truth, the fact of the matter was that Rafa had stood coldly behind him, miles and miles away. His back had been rigid and his words had been carefully picked like grapes and berries. He was different. But he was also 32 now, so of course he would have been. Roger wasn't sure why he had expected time to stand still for them, to wait for them to get their shit together, but time wasn't so patient, that was clear.

He was wandering around the hotel lounge when he spotted Andy Murray leaning against one of the bars, head tilted to the side and talking avidly to the bartender who was responding with a wry smile on his face.

Roger blinked at the scene, remembering how Andy had told him about his farewell party so openly, how Roger had nodded vaguely but then never showed up. Andy was a good guy, though. He always had been, everyone on the tour had something positive to say about him, even Roger himself.

Despite this fact, however,  Roger chose to hover around instead of going up to him, choosing to stare at a vase of flowers on a table nearby like he'd never seen anything so interesting in his entire life.

He was quite the expert at _pretending with_ and _ignoring_ things he didn't want to face or deal with. He'd basically done it all of his professional life. And before that? Well, he had forgotten that a non famous Roger Federer had ever even existed, such was the dramatic impact on his life. But he did remember feeling useless, he wasn't particularly academic in the way his parents would have liked and although he was _sporty_ , people thought his tennis abilities would be as a hobby at the most, no one knew it would become a career in the way that it had.

He glanced away from the burst of colour that the flowers oozed and found himself facing Murray who had been glancing at the vase too.

“Is it really that interesting to look at?” Andy asked him, humour evident in his tone.

Roger allowed himself half a laugh and then shrugged.

“I don't blame you that much though, ever since I got knocked out I've been bored out of my mind.” Andy glanced around once more before fixing his gaze back on Roger. “And to make things worse, they bloody torture you by broadcasting the tournament on _every single television_ in this building.”

And as if to compound his point, a loud grunt was heard from the telly and an elderly couple watched deliriously amongst themselves as Serena Williams won a point.

Roger agreed with Andy, but not to a large extent. He could handle watching tennis whilst not being in the tournament. After all, last year's Wimbledon and the US open hadn't exactly been his strongest moments. And then it occurred to him that what Andy felt was different because he'd _retired._ He'd retired and that was it. This was it. Except it wasn't because it was all around him, tennis was all around him and everywhere like four walls trapping him into a room. Almost like Andy Murray's body had given up on tennis but Andy Murray hadn't. _That_ was torture.

“So why stay?” Roger inquired, curiosity stirring. “Why not catch the next flight back to the UK? I heard that your mum and Jamie have already gone.”

Andy raised an eyebrow slightly at that, almost like he was surprised that Roger had even been keeping tabs. But Roger read the papers, and it wasn't just Andy he read about, he knew that none of Novak's immediate family had showed up for the tournament this far, that he was alone mostly and coped with it by partying between matches, he knew that Rafa was here with all of his immediate family as he had been recently, surrounded by his biggest admirers and Xisca, especially Xisca, the newspapers hadn't let him forget about Xisca who had earned her own little column, Xisca who was at every match supporting him, Xisca who had his diamond ring poised beautifully on her finger.

“My mum and Jamie aren't leaving anything behind by going.” Andy replies cryptically.

“And you are?”

Andy shrugs and half smiles. “I guess. Maybe.”

“Feel like I'm listening to riddles.”

“You're not exactly an open book yourself, Roger.” He pauses, scrutinizing Rogers face as if deciding something. Roger keeps his face carefully neutral. “Rafa was looking for you at my party.” Andy says then, still staring at him. “I wondered why you didn't come.”

It was like the last sentence had never been spoken into existence. All Roger could hear was that phrase and those words, _rafa was looking for you_.

“I-I just didn't really feel like it, I guess.” He answers. _Rafa was looking for you._ He wants Andy to expand on that, to tell him more, tell him why, tell him how and yet he didn't at the same time. What if Rafa had just wanted to tell him to leave him alone forever? To tell him to go away and disappear, to act like _they_ never happened? A small voice inside him counter argued; what if it was the opposite?

“No worries, anyways.” Andy said, reassuringly. “You can make it up to me by buying me a drink?” He gestured his head towards the bar, the bartender that he had been talking to before was looking over in their direction, almost hopefully, like he was so lonely that he'd love to talk to a couple of tennis players.

“Alright.” Roger said. “Okay."

And for the next hour or two he finds himself not thinking about anything at all. Its strange and liberating all at once. The bartender was funny in a quirky sort of way and loved football, he was an avid Barcelona and Real Madrid fan which both Roger and Andy argued was a crime against humanity. It was nice. It was all..nice.

 

***

All the big newspapers were predicting a Djokovic versus Nadal final. It just seemed inevitable at this rate, they were both head and shoulders above the rest left in the competition.

If it came down to it, Roger wanted Novak to win. And not just because he was angry at Rafa for moving on with Xisca, but because he genuinely wanted Novak to win. _Genuinely._

Andy had off handedly mentioned Novak more than a few times in their chat yesterday, seamlessly bringing him into their different conversations and he probably didn't even realise he was doing so. But it had opened Roger's mind a bit, because Novak came across as quite humorous and cool.

And Though he would be fine with Rafa winning it, what on earth would the guy say in his speech? _thank you Xisca for supporting me_ or something like _thanks to my beautiful fiance?_

It was hard to pinpoint the strongest emotion he felt towards Rafa but it was only describable as a mixture of love and regret and bitterness. Regret for them not working out the way they should have. Bitterness that Rafa had moved on so swiftly. Love because Roger still couldn't stop thinking about him. It wasn't fair. Rafa could do it, could move on, so why couldn't he? _Why couldn't he?_

He found himself standing outside the indoor swimming pool once again, this time staring in. It was empty again except for a man doing laps up and down the pool and with a flick of his curly locks he realised, with a jolt, that it was Rafa.

It was de ja vu but this time Rafa was the one who was off guard.

Roger silently watched his arms glide against the water and look of determination on his face. Rafa had always loved doing laps around the pool during tournaments. It was clear his focus was on the Australian Open and the rational choice would have been for Roger to leave him to it, but Roger wasn't thinking rationally. This seemed to be a theme around Rafa. He wasn't sure if he could blame himself, it was the only time he could talk to Rafa, it wasn't like they had each others phone numbers or met up often at all.

He took a couple of steps forward, pausing only when Rafa looked up at him instantly, droplets of water dripping down from his hair. The weird thing was, he didn't seem surprised to see Roger at all.

“You said I should move on.” Roger began, picking up from where their conversation had last ended. “I'm not sure if that's possible.”

Rafa ran a hand through his wet hair, breathing unevenly and stared at him. “Why not?” it wasn't accusatory or demanding.

Roger hesitated. “Because I don't want to.” He answered truthfully. “Because I don't want _you_ to.”

“You're too late.” Rafa looked away. “You're always too late.”

Roger winced at the truth of that, he'd been too late to tell Rafa he loved him back, and now too late to tell Rafa that he was _still_ in love with him. Maybe if he'd said something before him and Xisca got so serious. Maybe-

“Its a sign that we shouldn't be together, Roger. _You're always too late.”_ Roger dug his finger nail into his palm.

“I still love you.” Roger says, even though it was obvious to them both. “I never stopped.”

“I know.” Rafa says, dragging himself out of the pool.

“Do you still-” he trails off then, not being able to finish the question.

“It doesn't matter what I _feel_.” Rafa tells him, standing up. “We were terrible together and you know it. We just kept hurting each other over and over again. Why would I go back to that when I could have something stable with Xisca? Something concrete and safe and loving.”

“We were too young.” Roger protests. “Young and stupid.”

“Well it's too late.” Rafa says again, grabbing a towel from nearby. “It's just..the way it is. It's just.. _fate_."

“I don't believe in fate.” Roger stubbornly pursues.

Rafa looks at him. “Well I do.” And that's it.

 

***

Novak sits across from him, smiling down slightly at his phone.

Even the mere sight of Novak smiling seems odd to Roger. His long foregone conclusion of Novak had always been that his face consisted of 3 common facial expressions; pride, disappointment and envy.

But this was something like happiness and optimism. It stood out like a red rose in a sea of sunflowers. Was that what happiness looked like? Like, lips tilted upwards and relaxed muscles and an aura of _chill?_ Roger hadn't experienced that in so long.

He sat up slightly and cleared his throat. “Who are you texting?” he asked, curiously. Had Novak met a girl in Melbourne during the past couple of weeks? There were certainly a lot of groupies, hanging around because of the tournament. Of course Roger was in his late thirties so he probably wasn't quite as attractive a prospect as someone like Sascha Zverev or Grigor Dimitrov.

Novak shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal. “Just Andy.” He replied, casually. Roger nodded, remembering how at their last PR stunt, Novak and Andy had been on weird terms. At least they seemed okay now.

“Anyways.” Novak continues, looking at him. “You been doing okay?”

Roger frowns at that.

Novak laughs. “I apologise. How dare I ask such a nice question.”

Roger frowns for a few seconds more before laughing too. How sad that such a question of common decency could throw him off. How bitter and blue was his heart now? He should absolutely hate and despise Rafael Nadal. But he certainly didn't. He sighs. “I'm..okay.” he settles on.

Nothing more and nothing less, just smack bang in the middle of the _mood_ spectrum.

Novak nods at his answer, turning to face the glass through the double glazed windows of the Sunnyside cafe and Roger turns to look with him. There's a couple of paparazzi in the car park, pointing large lenses in their direction.

“They must be underwhelmed.” Novak commented. “You didn't storm off this time “

Roger smiles but he's mildly annoyed at Novak's words because it reminds him of why he stormed off and that reminds him of Rafa.

“Do you believe in fate?” he wonders, picking his fork up for the sake of something to do. He doesn't want Novak to know how much his answer matters to him-as a source of hope at least.

He sees the question whirl round in Novak's head like a game of Russian Roulette. “I believe we _create_ our own fate, if that's what you mean.”

 And suddenly, Roger is hit with the sudden realization of what to do next.


	7. Novak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so from now on i'm not making any promises as to when i will update because CLEARLY i'm so bad at updating. But i can promise that i will 100% finish this story because i love writing it so much!

‘’There’s something weird going on with Nadal and Federer.’’ Andy says musingly as he hangs upside down from the edge of the bed like a bat. ‘’Have you noticed?’’ 

Novak blinks at him, wondering how he can stand the rush of blood to his head and then blinks at him again, startled at how long and distinctive his eyelashes look from this angle,  _ and then  _ he blinks again, this time contemplating the question and coming to the sound conclusion that  _ no _ , he didn’t notice anything ‘weird’ going on with Rafa and Roger. 

‘’Not really.’ he answers with a shrug. As far as he was aware, Roger was having some sort of weird spiritual crisis with his question about fate and Rafa seemed normal enough, probably focused on winning the Australian Open. 

Andy raised an eyebrow at him, which looked weird as he was upside down. Why was he even upside down in the first place? It reminded Novak of the sort of thing he would do when he was ten years old or to try to see how long he could last before getting a shitstorm of a headache. ‘’I’ve never met anyone so bloody oblivious.’’ Andy shakes his head, eventually sitting up, his cheeks flushing slightly with the action. ‘’Are you even aware that the UK is in a crisis ever since we voted to leave the european union?’’ 

Novak groaned even before he’d finished his sentence.  _ Politics.  _ ‘’There’s a reason I ignore these things on purpose.’’ Novak responds, getting up to change the channel just for something to do. 

He’s not completely oblivious to  _ everything.  _ Like the fact that Andy hangs out with _ that _ guy at the bar downstairs regularly. He had seen them twice on his way to practice sessions at Melbourne Park and had felt weirdly compelled to not interrupt. The guy looked like a hippie, with long brown hair and green eyes. Novak thought he looked like one of those people who were fake ‘woke’. Those people who preached one thing on Twitter and did the exact opposite in real life. I.e complaining about climate change from a million dollar private jet. He secretly contemplated who Andy preferred to hang out with. 

‘’What?’’ Andy said, staring at him with a wry smile. ‘’What are you thinking really hard about?’’ 

Novak frowned. ‘’How can you tell?’’ He demanded, instantly trying to school his features. 

Andy snickered. ‘’So I guess you’re even oblivious to the fact that you have a really expressive face? You could have been an actor in another life.’’ 

Novak scoffed. ‘’ _ We’re all _ actors. Like, how do I know you’re not pretending to be friends with me right now so you can distract me from winning my rightful fifteenth grand slam title?’’ 

‘’I’m not doing that.’’ Andy says easily. 

‘’How do I know that, though?’’ 

Andy paused for a moment. ‘’ I guess you don’t.’’ He conceded. ‘’But I’m not. That would make no sense. I li-, I respect you too much for that.’’ 

Novak sits down on the bed beside him and stretches his legs, feeling Andy’s words soak into his skin. ‘’Well, I respect you as well.’’ he says honestly. 

Andy stretches his legs too. ‘’And besides, even if I did try to distract you, you would still win the whole thing. It doesn’t matter what I do.’’ 

_ I _ _ t does _ , something screams inside of him.  _ Everything you do matters.  _ He gulps, trying to swallow down the feeling but it gets louder. Andy's leg brushes against his own, the hairs on their legs skimming each other. His senses feel heightened and panicked. There's a spark of want and a flash of fear and he wonders if Andy is even aware of what he's doing. 

Novak clears his throat. "What's it like?" He asks quietly. "Kissing guys. What's that like?" 

Andy glances in his direction, staring at him carefully. Almost like he's holding back the answer. Like he thinks Novak wouldn't be able to handle the answer. 

" _ Tell _ me." He insists. "I just want to know." 

Andy swallows hard and then clenches his jaw. "It's hot. That's what it is. It's  _ hot  _ and cold and war and peace all at the same time." He says. "At least, to me." 

Novak wasn't expecting that answer really, although he's not quite sure what he  _ was  _ expecting. "Sounds complicated." Novak states. 

"Everything is complicated." Andy says, voice just above a whisper, still gazing at him. 

It's like they're dancing around words they truly want to say, like they're involved in a Native American Sun dance, acknowledging everything but the truth itself.  But the truth  _ was  _ that Novak couldn't fight it anymore, couldn't fight Andy anymore. He wanted to kiss a boy for the first time ever. He wanted to kiss Andy, briefly envisioned the image of their contrasting skin tones and lips joined together as if in prayer. 

And then a knock came at the door of Andy's hotel room and Novak jolted back so hard, he almost broke his back. It was like being taken out of a dream and snatched right back into reality. It wasn't Andy Murray kissing him, he was in a hotel room at Melbourne for a tournament that he  _ had  _ to win and he didn't have time to be kissing Scottish boys and then Andy was at the door, opening it and it was that hippy guy from the bar downstairs. "Cedar." Andy greets, as polite as ever.  _ His name was fucking Cedar _ ? Seriously? 

"Hey, man. I came up because I was bored when I didn't see you this morning." He strode in confidently, the beads from his necklace dangling loudly, the sound almost unwelcome in the silent room. He glanced around, as if he were surveying items in a shop. "You got a one night stand in here or what?" His words died in his throat as he caught sight of Novak on the bed. 

"Or what." Andy responded as Cedar looked at Novak and Novak looked at Cedar. 

Novak stands up. "Well I'm going to go..I've got practice to do. And stuff." 

Andy didn't object and followed him the door. He understood that Novak felt alien with the new stranger. Once by the door, Andy took his arm gently. Novak surprised himself by relaxing at his touch. "Don't run away this time." Andy tells him, referring to Novak's obvious hesitation at anything that was  _ too gay _ . He had hesitated when he had seen Nick Kyrgios on his knees for Andy and he had hesitated now. But he wouldn't run away. Not this time.

"I don't want to." Novak says honestly. "I won't." 

 

***

He beats Medvedev comfortably in the round of 16- playing some of his best tennis in the first 2 sets- and then works his way past an injured Nishikori. 

He feels the desire in his veins whenever he spots Rod Laver in the crowd and he knows that he  _ wants  _ this. God, he wants it. No one was going to stop him from winning his fifteenth grand slam. No one. 

After the match he goes to the smaller courts and dedicates a further four hours to working on his forehand and overhead shots with Marijan feeding him balls from the other side of the court. 

"Balls for breakfast, lunch and dinner!" Marijan jokes light-heartedly and whilst Novak smiles, his brain is already twisting the words and reconstructing,in its place, an image of Andy Murray's balls from  _ that day _ in 2016 at the ATP finals. He doesn't shy away from the image in his head but he has to clench his knuckles to  _ focus.  _ He hits a clean forehand down the line. 

 

***

He finds himself back at a house party, similarly to the one he’d attended before the start of the tournament. Loneliness drove him here. The extent to which he could sit in his hotel room was only so much. 

Novak pulls his red cap down as he walks up the stairs to the first floor, bumping into a couple of guys stood in the hallway. He pauses briefly to glance at them. Their faces are so close, they might as well merge into one. The shorter one then leans up to kiss the taller one and Novak blinks rapidly before stumbling into the bathroom. 

He’s been here a couple of hours, danced to a couple of songs and drank a couple of drinks. The fluorescent light made his skin appear weary. He looked fucking tired.  He ran the tap and splashed it across his face. He didn’t look any better.  The music pounded from below, a cringy sort of Australian Rap that would make anyone snigger. 

He almost wanted to give up, to concede to the small voice in him telling him that  _ 15  _ grand slams wasn’t that important anyways. 14 was good. 14 was great. Not many people got 14. Andy Murray didn’t get 14.  Novak had lied to Andy. Novak was a liar. He had promised not to run away but here he was, sat in a fucking stranger’s bathroom, contemplating his sexuality in front of a dirty, smudged mirror. 

A sudden knock came at the door followed by a raspy, female voice yelling ‘’I need to fucking _pee_!’’ so Novak unlocked the door and walked past a girl with ginger hair who rushed into the bathroom after giving him a nasty look. He goes back downstairs and absorbs the sound- Lana Del Ray now. It gives the party an instantly sombre mood. 

Someone taps him on the shoulder, a dude with wild curly locks and crooked teeth. ‘’Bro.’’ the guy says, squinting at him. ‘’Do I know you?’’ 

‘’No.’’ Novak says neutrally, before turning away, the only sign of his lie being the way he clenches his jaw tightly. 

He grabs another bottle of Whiskey and downs it down. If the other players on tour could see him now they would label him as such a terrible excuse for a world number one. What on earth was fucking wrong with him? Letting all this emotional, touchy feely stuff take over him would ruin his mentality towards the tournament. 

He sat on the table in the kitchen and cracked open a window, breathing in the fresh air. When he had gone through his ‘spiritual’ phase, this was what he used to do, just sit by a window and  _ breathe.  _ He does this now, leaning his head back against the wall and taking a sip of whiskey. Then another one. Then another. He feels light now and tipsy. He thinks of Andy and his chest constricts. He’s never thought about another man like this before. Novak’s been in relationships before, there was Lucie from when he was 14 and then Jelena for ages. There’s been one night stands after that but nothing solid. Nothing that’s made him feel anything real. The truth was, Andy made him feel real, made him feel scared. It was a strange fucking thing. Novak wasn’t scared of anything. He’d stood on a court at the 2015 US Open final and faced the wrath of thousands of Americans. He wasn’t a scared fucking person. But Andy was another thing. Andy was something else. 

His gaze wasn’t steady and shifted around the kitchen, the black tiled floor and the couple of portraits of beautiful women plastered around. The door of the kitchen is flung open and he is suddenly and horrifyingly greeted by the unmistakable sight of Rafael Nadal kissing some pale looking guy with vibrant dyed green hair. 

Novak’s mouth drops open for a good moment and the sickly sounds of tongues meeting is suddenly obviously apparent. 1. What the fuck was rafael nadal doing here. 2. What the fuck was rafael nadal doing here kissing  _ a guy _ ? 3. Who in their right mind would dye their hair  _ green _ ? 

Novak clears his throat loudly, placing down the bottle of whiskey beside him and hopping off the table. Rafa stumbles backwards from the guy with green hair and then glances dazedly towards Novak. He looks totally out of it and seriously high, his eyes are tinged with red. 

‘’Oh.’’ The guy with green hair says, glancing between Novak and Rafa. He doesn’t seem to recognize them. It seems that no one in Australia really cares about tennis players except for the middle and upper classes. ‘’Is he yours?’’ the guy inquires, raising an eyebrow at Novak as casually as if Rafa were some sort of object. 

And that’s when Rafa curls over and throws up all over the floor. 

‘’Fuck!’’ the guy exclaims, jumping backwards. 

‘’Shit.’’ Novak says, suddenly feeling like he has to take on a bit of responsibility here. Rafa is clearly out of it and whilst Novak isn’t exactly the picture of soberness, he’s got to be the one to step up. He blinks to try and get himself to focus and then takes Rafa by the arm, stepping over the mess of yellowish-green on the floor - a flash of sympathy for whoever had to clean  _ that  _ up- and then drags Rafa outside of the house, pass the throngs of partygoers and out to the main road. 

As soon as they get outside, Rafa crouches down on the ground and throws up again.  _ Lady Gaga  _ booms from inside the house. Novak has probably never felt more awkward in his entire life. Here was his enemy, his rival, the guy he was most probably going to face in the final, here he was so weak and broken down. What the fuck had happened to him? Novak wondered what had led Rafa to his place. Was he just there to let himself go or had he been scared like Novak? 

‘’What am I supposed to do..’’ Novak says quietly. 

Rafa wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks up at Novak. ‘’Get me out of here.’’ he says horasely. 

‘’Of course.’’ Novak says, fumbling in his pocket for his phone, with the intention of calling a cab. 

‘’Andy.’’ Rafa tells him, pushing his iphone towards him. ‘’Call Andy.’’ 

Novak instantly hesitates. He knew they were friends but he didn’t know they were  _ that  _ close. ‘’Why Andy?’’ he has to ask. 

Rafa half glares at him. ‘’Don’t ask me anything right now, okay? You didn’t see me here and I didn’t see you.’’ 

Novak reluctantly calls Andy, who sounds surprised to hear his voice- a reasonable reaction considering he was calling from Rafa’s phone. Andy shows up 15 minutes later, their location wasn’t far from the hotel at all. The cab driver glances at Rafa’s messy state and then looks away. He was good at minding his business. 

‘’Jesus.’’ Andy states, looking at Rafa. He then helps him into the back of the car, turning back to glance at Novak. Maybe it’s the way the light is, but Andy looks like some sort of angel. ‘’Aren’t you coming?’’ Andy asks. His voice seems laced with tension, no doubt mildly annoyed by Novak’s habit of conveniently ignoring him every so often.

Novak glances back at the house and then forwards towards Andy. The choice was blatant; avoid reality by staying here at the party or face reality by joining Andy and Rafa in the cab. As a result, the choice was simple. ‘’I’m not done here.’’ He replies, drawing his knees together. 

‘’Not done getting shit faced, you mean?’’ Andy scoffs. He goes to the front door and looks as if he’s about to get in but then he says something to the driver and the cab drives off. 

They are both left staring at each other. 

Novak wants to run back inside. It’s late, its January and it's cold.  He sniffs. ‘’What do you want?’’ He asks. 

‘’The truth.’’ Andy says. ‘’That’s all I want. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I just want the truth.’’ 

He continues to beat around the bush. ‘’What truth?’’ 

Andy runs a hand through his hair. ‘’You love making things complicated, don’t you?’’

‘’It’s my speciality.’’ Novak says drily. 

Andy huffs a laugh and then sits down next to him on the pavement. ‘’You stink.’’ Andy tells him, honestly. 

‘’Move away, then.’’ Novak returns. 

‘’No.’’ Andy says, moving closer towards him. ‘’I meant, you stink of lies and of hurt and- of pain.’’ He pauses. ‘’Of fear, too.’’ 

Novak purses his lips and doesn’t say anything. Andy sighs and looks down at his own hands. A couple of girls with high clompy heels walk past giggling into the night. 

‘’Sometimes I think I made it up.’’ he says quietly. ‘’Maybe I made up this idea in my head that you like me and I’m being delusional or whatever--’’ He looks at Novak. ‘’Look, I’m not asking you to fucking marry me, I just want you to tell me if I’m delusional or not.’’ 

Novak is silent for a bit, holding Andy’s gaze. He blinks and then looks up towards the sky. ‘’I’m not supposed to be gay, you know.’’ 

‘’Yeah, well neither was I.’’ Andy says. ‘’But here I am. Totally gay for you.’’ 

Novak smiles a little at that. 

‘’I mean it.’’ Andy says seriously. Novak bites his lip. Andy places a hand on his cheek. ‘’This okay?’’ Novak nods, slowly. Andy's palms are warm despite the sudden breeze, comforting despite the adrenaline running through his body. After a bit, Novak does the same. He looks at Andy. 

"You're not being delusional." He says. "About this. About- us."

"Good." Andy says, palm travelling downwards towards his chin. "This fine?" 

"You don't need to ask all the time." Novak says humorously. "Just do it." 

So Andy kisses him. And Andy was right. It does feel hot; their tongues are burning, it's cold because the breeze has picked up and is igniting goosebumps on his skin. There's an element of war, a small part of him telling him that this is wrong- that he should stop- but mostly, mostly kissing Andy feels like peace. 


	8. Rafael

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> finally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I APOLOGISE BUT THIS TOOK AGES BECAUSE I WANTED IT TO BE AS PERFECT AS POSSIBLE SO I HOPE YOU ENJOY IT.

Waking up feels like hell. 

His skin is burning underneath the deep depths of the duvet covers and his head is being tortured by a constant and _throbbing_ headache that just won’t go away. Someone touches his arm to shake him but it feels like being lashed with fire and Rafa opens his eyes with a jolt, eyes meeting with the pristine white ceiling above, fingers digging into the blue bedsheet. Everything feels hot, too hot. His arms scramble towards his body, urgent to take his clothes off but he finds that he is already naked.  That’s when he sees Xisca stood by the side of the bed, looking at him patiently like she was waiting for the sun to rise. 

‘’Hey.’’ She says simply, with an easy smile. 

The juxtaposition of her demeanour and his inward thoughts could not be any more potent. Rafa was quickly remembering the events of last night; kissing a guy at that party, Novak finding him, the awkward taxi ride home in which he threw up several times in the backseat, the fact that the whole sequence of events had been triggered by a random thought about Roger kissing his neck one Wednesday morning.

Xisca smiles at him again before going over to the windows and opening the blinds gently. ‘’You acted so weird last night, you know.’’ she mutters as the warm rays of light seep in. She’s wearing her usual blue pyjama shorts and a white singlet vest, though Rafa notices she hasn’t put the diamond ring on yet. ‘’Said a lot of stuff about Federer and chocolate? Or was it that Federer  _ gave _ you chocolates in 2010 on  _ Valentines day?.’’  _ She laughs in disbelief and then turns around to face Rafa who desperately attempts to conceal any shed of truth about that statement on his face. How fucking wasted  _ was he last night?  _ ‘’That was probably the weirdest thing you’ve said, considering I’ve never even see you guys talk to each other.’’ Her smile falters a bit at that. ‘’He’s a bit hostile though, isn’t it?’’ 

‘’Yeah?’’ Rafa says, slightly interested. Roger didn’t come across as hostile to him, more like annoyingly genuinely regretful of their shared past. Though perhaps around Xisca he was different. 

‘’For sure.’’ She nods. ‘’We were both in the elevator one time and he could barely say a word to me. It was like talking to a brick wall.’’ She appears to contemplate on the memory for a bit before perking up again. One of the things Rafa liked best about her was her positivity- it was infectious particularly for an anxious ridden tennis star who was such a perfectionist.  ‘’Anyways, you’ve got to practice for your semi final tomorrow, so, rise and shine, babe.’’ 

Rafa is still lying flat on his back when Xisca goes to the toilet. He allows himself about half a minute to think about Roger before he gets ready for breakfast. 

They both go down for breakfast together, Xisca holding his hand because he still feels slightly disoriented- he’s not sure what he drank, nor  _ how much  _ he consumed but he feels like absolute shit.  Breakfast is quiet in the lounge but he immediately spots Novak who’s stuffing his mouth with toast. They make uncomfortable eye contact before Rafa looks away first. So the cat was out of the bag, then. Novak now knew that he wasn’t strictly heterosexual. And also that he had essentially cheated on Xisca- which was probably the bigger deal. 

Xisca grabs two bananas and it’s now that Rafa notices that she is wearing her diamond ring. The more he looked at it, the more anxious he became. Diamonds were forever, right? That was the whole point of proposing, it was supposed to be a commitment. Something to last forever. But the thing was-that forever part sure was freaking him out. That in fifty years time he would wake up to a smiling Xisca and she would  _ still  _ be wearing the ring. Like a picture caught in time. Like a moment frozen in history. There was something reluctantly disappointing about this prospect. 

Rafa takes a plate and loads it with a bagel and a chocolate croissant and then reaches across for a bottle of Evian water. 

‘’Morning.’’ says a familiar voice beside him.  He fumbles with his bottle and scrambles to pick it up as Roger stands beside him with his own plate half full. Xisca has already collected her breakfast and is talking to one of the ladies that was staying on the same floor as them. 

Roger has serious sleepy vibes with his hair ruffled and the shirt he has on is obviously creased. He’s not even smiling at Rafa which is even worse- it means he’s determined and hasn’t given up yet, it’s that look he gets when he’s a match point down, when he’s putting everything on the line. Rafa wants to be angry, he really does but a small part of him concedes that it is nice to know that Roger cares. That he always had. It was just- of course- too late. And Rafa had pride too - that was another thing- something  he was seriously trying to maintain. He didn’t want to crawl back to Roger after proposing to Xisca, how embarrassing would that be? How low would that look? His mother had already begun planning the guest list, too.

‘’Morning.’’ Rafa replies, turning to look at the older man who’s already looking at him. ‘’I never see you at breakfast.’’ he adds then, as an afterthought. Not that he looks out for him like that.

‘’Well, forgive me if I’m trying to avoid the  _ couple of the century  _ in their natural habitat.’’ Roger says overtly sarcastically with a roll of his eyes. ‘’And you stopped coming to the swimming pool, so.’’  _ So here I am _ , is the part he doesn’t add on. Because he wasn’t going to leave Rafa alone was he? 

‘’Why do you think I stopped going?’’ Rafa asks him seriously, grabbing a tangerine. 

Roger grabs a tangerine too. ‘’I don’t 100% know’’ He answers honestly. ‘’But I’m hoping it’s because I struck a nerve. I hope it’s because you still have feelings for me.’’ He tilts his head towards Rafa, staring him down. His eyes are brown but appear darker in this lighting. For Rafa it feels like staring into the past. It feels like danger. But it also feels like electricity. Like the spark between them never really left. He should deny it but he can’t. 

‘’You’re on the side of hope, then.’’ Rafa says, instead. ‘’I’m on the side of fate.’’ It’s the best reply he can think of. It didn’t matter what Rafa felt. It was too late. 

‘’I’m on the side of fate too.’’ Roger says quickly. ‘’I believe we can create our own fate. So that’s what I’m trying to do. I messed up but now I’m here. And I just wanted to tell you-’’ He pauses as a woman walks closely by on her phone. He lowers his voice. ‘’That if you wanted to give it another try, I do too-I’ll be waiting outside my room on Sunday until midnight.’’ 

There it was. A hook being flung into the sea and all Rafa had to do was take the bait.

‘’You look good, by the way.’’ Roger tells him earnestly before grabbing a croissant and heading to one of the hoards of tables for his breakfast. Rafa watches him until it’s really obvious and he looks away. 

Xisca is sat on a table now, with the same lady, both of their heads ducked and laughing. 

He wasn’t going to go, of course. The risk factor was too high in all regards; Roger’s unpredictability, the strength of emotions, the prospect of failure. What if they got back together only to fall apart again? Rafa couldn’t handle that twice. There was no way he could go back.

 

***

‘’You were awesome.’’ Stefanos says genuinely at the net, face slicked with perspiration, a mixture of pride and disappointment etched onto his face. He sounds like a fanboy much to Rafa’s amusement. Poor kid. He was going to go through lows like this a million times throughout his career. 

‘’Thanks.’’ Rafa replies. ‘’And you’ll be back here, in this position.You’re too good not to win one of these things.’’ 

They shake hands firmly and then Stefanos heads towards the umpire. The crowd are impressed by his performance even if they did want to see something more competitive, they’re on their feet as he waves to them. Like a King to his subjects.He already knows that the next time he steps onto the court, it’ll be against Novak. And he’s ready. He knows he’s ready. 

Afterwards, Xisca orders snacks to their hotel room in the midst of Shakira playing loudly. Her ethos of good vibes applies to any and every single situation - such as Rafa reaching a final. 

‘’Cheers.’’ she grins, a glass of champagne in tow as a man arrives with chocolates and sweets and crisps. 

Rafa makes a face. ‘’Are we getting diabetes or celebrating?’’ He questions light-heartedly. 

‘’How about both?’’ She says, popping a lollipop into her mouth. 

He laughs and lies down flat on his bed, breathing in the feeling of almost success. Almost. If he can just win. 

‘’Relax.’’ She tells him, tone softer now. ‘’You’re as tight as a bumhole.’’ 

He shakes his head. ‘’That’s a lovely use of the English language.’’ 

She shrugs. ‘’Meh. I always preferred Spanish, anyways.’’ She grins at her own joke and then lies on her side, facing Rafa, expression more sincere. ‘’God.’’ She begins, hands patting the mattress. ‘’Has anyone told you how handsome you are?’’ 

She means it lightly but Rafa can’t help but think of the answer to her question; which was of course  _ yes.  _ Whilst Roger had allergies to any forms of love confessions he never hesitated in telling Rafa that- whether is was after sex or when they were hanging out or when he thought Rafa was sleeping. Roger had said it all the time. His delayed response makes Xisca squeal. 

‘’Oh! So who is the young lady I should be in contact with?’’ She lowers the volume of Shakira’s shrills and fake glares, crossing her arms over her chest. Maybe it’s because he feels so chilled out, what with the music and the champagne and the  _ damn sweets  _ that he doesn’t feel or see anything wrong with correcting her.

‘’He.’’ Rafa says. ‘’It was a guy.’’ 

Her face falls slightly for all of her pretences. She tucks a curl behind her ear and sits up on her knees. ‘’Huh.’’ She manages after a long pause. ‘’I never knew you dated guys.’’

‘’Yeah, well it’s no big deal.’’ Rafa shrugs, taking a deep breath and reaching past Xisca for a caramel toffee. ‘’We’re over. We’ve been over for a long time.’’ He leans forward to kiss the pinched look off of her face - she looks like someone has stepped on her favourite shoes- but she shifts her head just out of reach. She still looks like she was digesting the new information. 

On second thought, it probably wasn’t the best of ideas, he thought. Xisca had no damn clue that he was bisexual so in a way he could sort of understand her reaction. A beat pasts of Shakira crooning about how her hips didn’t lie, Rafa low key wanting to eat his caramel toffee and a book falling off from the nearby table. 

And then Xisca says. ‘’Who?’’ Her voice is eerily calm and poised. 

Rafa frowns and now sits up, too. Having the conversation whilst lying down meant that his capacity to word vomit increased by about a thousand percent. ‘’What?’’ He says, not quite believing that she asked him that question. 

She sighs, placing her glass by the bedside table. ‘’Who is he, Raf?’’ 

He stares at her long enough to come to the conclusion that she’s dead serious. The mood could not have done more of a 180 turn. Now Shakira sounded so terribly out of place in the more subdued climate. He’s not sure whether to say Roger’s name quickly or slowly or whether to even say his name at all. There was always the choice of him lying, but it seemed counter-productive. If it was over between them then there would be no reason to lie and it shouldn’t have been a big deal. 

‘’Federer.’’ He finally admits. ‘’Years and years ago.’’ 

Xisca purses her lips and sits back on her hands, the glass of champagne now well and truly rejected. She bites on her lip. ‘’And it’s over, is it?’’

‘’What’s that supposed to mean?’’ He scoffs. 

‘’I saw you guys talking at breakfast yesterday.’’ She says. ‘’I didn’t think anything of it really but now- and that night where you came back completely out of your mind- when you told me about Federer and _ the chocolates _ .’’ Xisca looks at him. ‘’You can’t blame me for doubting.’’ 

Rafa looks down at his hands and then down at Xisca's hands. She isn’t wearing her diamond ring and he can’t ignore the weight he feels lifted off of his shoulders. Like those diamonds weight shittons. 

‘’Look at me and tell me it’s over.’’ She tells him. ‘’Please.’’ 

So Rafa looks at her and tells her that it is over. 

‘’ _ Bullshit _ , Rafa.’’ Xisca scorns, getting off the bed entirely. 

‘’I  _ want it  _ to be over.’’ Rafa says instead, almost desperately. He does. He wants it so badly to be over. Xisca was lovely. She was beautiful and fun and honest. She was safe. His parents loved her and so did his friends. On paper, the whole thing made sense. It made sense. Rafa wanted it to make sense. 

‘’And what- this is your only way to move on?’’ She raises her voice, unable to keep out her frustration. ‘’To marry me- some random bitch- just so you could get one over your ex? Just so you could get one over Federer? Because if that’s your plan, it’s  working! Congratulations, _ he’s jealous _ , I saw him looking at you throughout the whole damn breakfast meal!’’ Her voice shakes towards the end and she frantically searches around the room for something.

‘’Xisca.’’ He says, standing up. ‘’That’s not how I meant it,  _ at all. _ ’’ 

She doesn’t seem to really be listening though, she far too frantic and can’t see through  her haze of anger and betrayal to even hear a single word he has to say. She finally finds what she is looking for; her handbag. And then she heads towards the door. 

‘’Wait.’’ He tries and fails to grab her arm. ‘’Where are you going?’’ 

She gives him a long look, running a hand through her hair which is now wild. ‘’I just need a night by myself, okay?’’ She nods as a way of justifying her decision, looking at Rafa to do the same. He eventually nods as well. And then she’s gone. 

 

 

***

The day of the final begins with Xisca returning the diamond ring. 

Her eyes seem tear-stained but her face seems as hard as stone. She drops the ring into his hands carefully, still aware of its worth. 

‘’What are you doing?’’ Rafa asks, even though he’s not dumb and he knows perfectly well. But he’s half hoping it isn’t real. 

‘’You need to sort your shit out.’’ She tells him straight. ‘’If you really want to be with me then you need to truly move on from him- and maybe we’ll work it out somewhere down the line. But otherwise- you need to stop lying to yourself about your feelings.’’ 

Rafa stares down at the diamond rock in his hands. It now seemed so powerless like this, yet when Xisca had it on her hands it seemed to wield so much power. He didn’t know what to say in response, so just stared at her blankly. He was sad, of course but at the same time the engagement, upon reflection came at a really bad time - he didn’t expect to bump into Roger as much as he did, especially as they had previously done a really good job of avoiding each other, he also was still really focused on his career, and then there was Andy’s retirement which seemed to lurk high amongst anything else- an imminent reminder of how quickly a tennis career could pass by. 

Whether he has something to say or nothing, it didn’t matter as she gave him a kiss on the cheek, like they were schoolkids of the sort. ‘’And good luck for today, of course.’’ 

‘’I didn’t ask you to marry me to make Roger jealous.’’ He finally finds his words to say. ‘’Let’s not talk about that right now.’’ She says forcing a smile. ‘’Focus on your match, okay?’’ She heads down the hallway to that lady she had been hanging out with and Rafa guesses she was probably staying there for a bit. 

Regardless, she was right, he had a final to prepare for. 

 

***

Novak wins. 

Novak makes a speech worthy of an Oscar, gives thanks to his box then a long list of sentiments to his family, his parents, his brothers who aren’t there and then he mentions Murray’s retirement which is slightly out of character and just weird- it wasn’t common place to mention a player other than one’s opponent- and Rafa spots Andy in Novak’s box grinning like a cheshire cat and so if two plus two is four then those two are definitely into each other. 

He wonders if him and Roger were ever obvious like that when they were together? The 2011 French Open speech had been hard to give knowing that they had had sex the night before. 

Rafa’s speech is tame in comparison and he knows it. His head is all over the place so his English sucks and he says thanks to Xisca but doesn’t mention the word fiance and hopes that it isn’t too glaringly conspicuous. 

It’s quite late into the evening after the arduous trophy ceremony and it ends with Novak lifting up his fifteenth grand slam trophy with a wry smile. It’s horrible to watch of course but it’s what Rafa deserves. From a cynical perspective it was a deserving punishment for all his fuck ups. Maybe even Xisca had been cheering against him. 

There’s an after party after which Rafa decides to go to, to try and make himself forget the last 72 hours. There are many tennis players there both old and current and it’s a strange sight to see John McEnroe shouting at one of the speakers for not being loud enough but then he remembers that it’s still McEnroe and suddenly it’s not such a strange sight anymore. 

Novak and Andy seemed joined at the waist, both circling within each others orbit as they greet others. It’s subtle in a way, you wouldn’t really know they were into each other unless you were really looking. And Rafa was really looking. 

Andy spots him and waves, Novak twists his head to look in the same direction and Rafa can almost capture the exact moment a sense of awkwardness comes over Novak. How awkward to socialise with the man you just beat in a final just hours earlier. Rafa saves them both the trouble and approaches them instead. 

‘’Hey!.’’ Andy grins, as happy as ever. 

Rafa offers a generously small smile. Then he hums. ‘’So you two, huh?’’ 

‘’Us two, what?’’ Novak answers, immediately defensive. 

‘’Together.’’ Rafa adds. 

He waits for Novak to deny it but he just shrugs. ‘’If you wanna call it that.’’ It’s effortlessly said but Andy looks pleased with his response. 

‘’So where’s Xisca?’’ Andy says. ‘’I wanted to give her my number.’’ 

‘’For what, exactly?’’ Rafa inquiries. 

‘’Well, since I’m retiring I’m going to have fuck all to do. So she suggested we hang out, saunas, yoga, lunches and all that jazz.’’ 

‘’Sounds boring.’’ Novak comments with his tennis centric hinged view. 

‘’Sounds gay.’’ Rafa says, laughing a little. 

‘’Nah.’’ Novak says. ‘’Maybe if you’d included shopping and spas then that would be like a 10 on the gay o'meter.’’ 

Andy rolls his eyes and then catches sight of someone in the room. ‘’Novak, I need you to meet someone.’’ 

Novak closes his eyes and groans. ‘’How many fucking  _ friends _ do you have.’’

‘’Hope you’re all good, Rafa?’’ Andy says, lowering his voice, eyes fixed earnestly on him. 

‘’Yep.’’ he lies, not wanting to dampen the mood. Andy grins then drags Novak away with him. 

Rafa finds a spot and sits down, a plate of meat pies in front of him and a drink in his hand. By the time he’s entertained various types of small talk it’s 11:30 p.m on a Sunday and this is  _ not  _ the way he thought it would go. He was supposed to be the one walking around with the trophy, Xisca by his side. Instead it was Novak. 

‘’Dude.’’ He looks up to see Stefanos Tsitsipas shaking his head down at him, blonde curls tumbling down to his grey shirt. ‘’You look lonely as fuck. Even worse than when I saw Federer half an hour ago. He looked lonely as fuck. But you- you look slightly worse.’’ 

‘’Shit.’’ Rafa hisses, scrambling to his feet. 

‘’What?’’ Stefanos says, holding his hands up. 

‘’Where was Federer?’’ He demands. 

Stefanos squints his eyes, pausing to think. Weren’t young people meant to have far better memories for fucks sake. ‘’Third floor.’’ 

‘’Alright, thanks.’’ 

‘’Where are you going!’’ The Greek yells to no despair because Rafa’s gone. 

He had completely forgotten about Roger’s preposition, his claim of them being able to control their own fate, the hook that he had flung into the sea. There was some kind of inevitable feeling about it all, he thought as he ran to the lifts. Constantly chasing after each other, round and round in circles until they were both stuck in a state of confusion. Roger had been chasing him and now he was chasing after Roger. Xisca - lovely and smart Xisca- she was right, of course. That he had to stop lying to himself. He had never truly been over Roger, at best he was able to disregard those feelings but they had never completely disappeared, not really. 

There were long queues for both lifts and he was distinctly aware that Roger had said until twelve so the only viable option was the stairs. His legs were burning after the first flight but he pushed himself on to the third floor, breathing out sharply as he dragged himself to the third floor landing.

It was empty. He blinked furiously, convinced that his eyes were deceiving him but the empty sight remained. Just an empty hallway. Just an empty corridor. There was nothing and there was certainly no Roger. Maybe he had given up on Rafa? Maybe his patience had waned out. Or maybe he just wasn’t feeling it anymore. 

Even though he had repeated the rhetoric of fate constantly, right before him was the horrifying reality. The first time Roger was too late. And even now, even the second time, Rafa was too late. How could they fail twice? He kicked the nearest thing to him which was the wall and leaned his head against it as hard as he could, fighting the force of the wall like he imagined fighting the force of fate. The only sound close to him was his hard ragged breathing. His lungs were burning, he was ready to burn his lungs to try and get here on time and-  

‘’Fucks sake, Rafa I thought you weren’t coming.’’ 

He swivelled around immediately, drawn like a moth to roger’s voice. He was a couple of feet away, dressed in what looked like was his pyjamas, an expression of genuine surprise etched across his face. Rafa isn’t sure how to respond at first, he had been convinced that it was all over. He looked down at his shirt which was all crumpled and tried to straighten it, pulling it down at the ends. Roger’s eyes flickered down towards the action with a degree of interest that made the hairs on his arms stand up. 

‘’Can we just kiss and talk later?’’ Rafa offers, sort of drunk and half-embarrassed but also half-not because Roger looked like he felt the same way. 

‘’I’m cool with that.’’ Roger says, nodding. It's not obvious but he looks nervous. 

Rafa sighs and closes the gap between them, leaning up to kiss Roger.  It was a very sloppy kiss - almost like they had  forgotten how to do it, forgotten the taste of each others lips but then Roger tilted his head to the left and they matched each other’s intensity - the strong scent of old wine being exchanged in the intermingling of their billowing breaths. 

‘’Have you been drinking?’’ Roger pulled back slightly to say. 

‘’Yeah.’’ Rafa says, leaning back in. 

Roger pulls away again. ‘’So you’re drunk right now?’’ 

‘’ _ Yes _ .’’ Rafa says, annoyed at every minute that passed where their lips weren’t touching.

‘’So you’re only kissing me because you’re drunk?’’ 

‘’Yes.’’ Rafa says, before actually comprehending his words. ‘’Wait, no. What?  _ No _ .’’ 

Roger shakes his head and looks up to the heavens and then down at Rafa. ‘’How do I know that tomorrow you won’t regret this? I don’t want to take advantage of you.’’ 

His concern was cute but it wasn’t much appreciated, especially after two minutes of making out that had left Rafa feeling hot and bothered. ‘’Don’t be silly.’’ Rafa scoffs. ‘’I want you,  _ that’s why I’m here.’’ ‘ _

_ ’ _ You’re also drunk.’’ The older man points out, taking a step back. Even the small distance pisses Rafa off. They’ve been apart for so long and Rafa just wants to be close to him but he’s overcomplicating things. 

‘’I’m drunk but I know what I’m doing.’’ He argues, quickly sobering. He grabs Roger’s face, forcing him to look him in the eye. ‘’I fucking love you. Drunk or not. I give consent and all that crap but please just kiss me. It’s been ages- And _I’m_ sorry and _you’re_ sorry and I  _ just want to kiss you.’’  _

‘’If you’re sure.’’ Roger says, seeming more convinced. 

‘’I’m sure.’’ Rafa confirms. He’s so damn sure. He can admit it now. 

Roger rubs his thumb against Rafa’s lips which are shining red from their kiss. ‘’Like cherries.’’ He comments nonchalantly. 

‘’How sexy is that.’’ Rafa laughs slightly. ‘’He brings up  _ fruit.’’  _

Roger kisses his cherry lips and there’s more assurance to it this time, his hands are on Rafa’s chin, holding him in place. They both want this- want each other. 

‘’My room?’’ Roger mumbles in between kisses. 

Rafa half nods, half kisses, eyes catching sight of a big clock behind Roger’s head. Even though it read 12:03 A.M, they were both here. Roger was really kissing him, leading him to his room. The timing was perfect even if Rafa hadn’t been on time and suddenly fate didn’t mean anything to him because it had been truly and utterly defeated. 


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fin.

Even though it was his birthday, Xisca was purposefully being annoying, switching the DVD every ten minutes or so and sprawling herself out on the couch like a lean prestigious cat, her brown wispy hair fawned around her face like a halo and her feet wriggling precariously on the edge.

Rafa had complained about her antics twice only to be countered with a light-hearted ‘’Remember that time when you proposed to me even though you were still in love with Roger? Yeah, you don’t get to complain.’’

Despite her comments, she was dating someone else now and at first the media had erupted and article after article sprung up that she was cheating on Nadal until he had publicly announced their split to which people had erupted even further and conspiracies had arisen as to what had caused their break up. Some said that Xisca and Rafa’s sister didn’t get along and so Rafa had been given an ultimatum by Maria, in the end, choosing his sister. Another rumour was that Xisca was tired of being a trophy girlfriend and wanted Rafa to give up tennis- which he of course was not going to. (There were also small and more taboo whispers that Rafa was gay, it didn’t get as much attention but it was definitely something that had been picked up by some.)

‘’I always thought that Annabelle was just a terrible version of Chucky.’’ Xisca says in reference to the film with a sniff. She gets up to change the DVD.

‘’I still can’t believe you bought all these DVDs.’’ Rafa says, looking at the carpet which was stacked to the brim. Mamma Mia,  Eternal Love - _The Englishman Who Went Up a Hill But Came Down A Mountain?_ ‘’ ''Some of these sound awful. Who even buys DVDs anymore?’’

‘’ _Me._ ’’ Xisca says defensively. ‘’I refuse to be consumed by mass postmodernism.’’ She shuffles through some of the films on the floor. ‘’How about The Sun is Also a Star?’’

Rafa makes a face. ‘’Actually, I was going to watch that one with Roger.’’

‘’On DVD?’’ Xisca asks pointedly.

‘’No.’’ Rafa says. ‘’On some illegal streaming website.’’ She rolls her eyes, even though her lips quirk at the sides. Rafa was actually serious about that.

The doorbell rings. ‘’Wonder who it is.’’ Xisca says sarcastically.

Rafa ignores her and opens the door, pleased to see Roger’s tanned face and styled hair. He’s wearing sunglasses which makes him look slightly moody and unapproachable but he smiles when he sees Rafa. They still weren’t living together because despite everything they had been through, it did feel like treading a thin line and neither wanted to mess it up.

‘’She still here?’’ Roger questions, placing his arm in the doorway. He waits half a second for Roger to say something else, maybe the fact that Rafa was 33? But he just looks at him expectantly for an answer.

‘’Unfortunately.’’ Rafa says after, with a laugh, leaning forward to kiss Roger’s cheek. Roger bumped their noses together before stepping inside and taking off his shades, smirking when he caught sight of Xisca.

‘’Roger, darling!’’ She exclaimed, giving him air kisses. They were surprisingly friendly with each other now. Who knew that Roger would warm to her after she stopped being with Rafa. Shocker. ‘’You’re just in time for the next film.’’ She says. ‘’But the popcorn might be finished.’’

‘’Popcorn is vastly overrated anyways.’’ Roger says.

‘’No comment.’’ Rafa says, although he is quite appalled at that statement. He heads to the kitchen regardless to get _himself_ more popcorn than anything else and when he comes back Xisca is putting her jacket on.

‘’You’re going?’’ She nods. ‘’Yeah. I was going to go see Chad anyways. We do yoga on Wednesdays- so.’’ She smiles at him cheerily and then steps forward to give him a hug. ‘’Happy birthday, Raf.’’  she whispers in his ear, squeezing him tight and then seeing herself out.

Rafa notes the mental image of Xisca and Chad doing yoga before sniggering to himself. When they had been together, Xisca _hated_ yoga. Which could only mean one thing- she was lying. He turned to Roger. ‘’So how did you get her to leave?’’ He asked, putting the popcorn box on a table nearby.

‘’Told her I wanted to celebrate your birthday with you properly.’’  Roger says, waving a box of chocolates in front of him.

Rafa is weirdly surprised. ‘’You remembered my birthday?’’

‘’Are you seriously asking me that?’’ Roger says exasperatedly. ‘’I’ve known you for donkey’s years.’’

‘’Well, you didn’t say it earlier.’’ Rafa argues pettily.

‘’That’s because _I’m saying it now_.’’ Roger emphasises. ‘’Now, do you want the chocolate or not because I’m not going to lie , I’m kind of hungry.’’

‘’Is there white chocolate?’ Rafa asks potently.

‘’Yes, even _that_ atrocity.’’ Roger confirms. ‘’But I don’t discriminate so there’s also dark chocolate and chocolate chips and-’’

‘’Like 2010?’’ Rafa says fondly. Like 2010 Valentines Day when Roger had gotten him all types of chocolate.

‘’Like 2010.’’ Roger agrees, eyes softening.

‘’Fuck, Roger.’’ Rafa says, hand over his mouth.

‘’Do you want to?’’ Roger wonders seriously.

It was funny how the conversation could jump so quickly from fluffy to pure lust but Rafa wasn’t really complaining. He kisses Roger softly, a thank you hidden somewhere beneath it before the heat takes over and his hands grip Roger’s hair, his shoulders then his waist, there's too many places he wants his hands to touch. 

The other day Roger had been talking about their age and how old he felt, but doing this, when they did this, Rafa felt like a teenager again.

Their clothes come off pretty quickly, it’s so natural and they’ve done it before. Roger wants to take him to the bedroom but Rafa wants to have sex right here in the living room, in front of these damn DVDs and the film currently playing

‘’Think of it as another gift for me.’’ Rafa says.

They have sex against the wall, Roger’s arms tensing with the pressure of holding Rafa up by his thighs. His hands run up and down Rafa’s face as his buries his head into Rafa's shoulder. Rafa grips him in tighter with his feet, almost wanting to literally merge their bodies into one. Sometimes it's not enough to be this close, sometimes he needs more.

"I love you." He whispers against Roger's neck.

Roger's hips buck up in response and Rafa's breath hitches and he closes his eyes wanting Roger to hit that same spot again and again. His arse clenches with the pleasure and his toes curl as Roger kisses his neck, bringing Rafa's left leg higher for more security and a better angle. Roger's left hand strokes his dick whilst at the same time maintaining the same energy with his hip thrusting. It feels like heaven.

"It should-" Rafa moans lowly as Roger flicks his wrist. "It should be my birthday more often." He manages to get out.

Roger comes first with a low groan, thick spurts all over Rafa’s stomach, so white it looks like bits of snow. ''Fuck, Rafa,'' he breathes, ''I love this. I love you.'' Then Roger continues to wank him off, large hands squeezing at the tip. 

''Say it again.'' Rafa pants. 

''I love you.'' Roger says. ''I love you, I love you..'' his voice fades as Rafa leans forward to kiss him, neck straining. 

"Maybe I should make you come 33 times." Roger pulls back and whispers jokingly.

The idea is so erotic that Rafa comes with a gasp, hips spasming, and head falling back against the wall like it was suddenly too weak to stand on its own.

Roger kisses his neck as he comes down from his high, his heartbeat racing. "I think I should use that line more often." Roger says after a bit into the comfortable silence, running a hand through Rafa's hair, their chests breathing in and out of sync.

 

***

‘’You know, I’ve been thinking recently.’’ Andy muses, adam's apple bobbing as he promptly swallows. It’s only because Novak is so close to him that he notices. His head is resting on Andy’s arm whilst Andy’s other arm is behind his own head.

They’ve been lying like this for ages and even though he’s lost track of time, he knows that it’s way past midnight. Sometimes they’ll sleep during the day and be awake at night - like nocturnal animals. It didn’t feel like he had to follow the rules of society anymore- sleeping at night, being straight, letting other people define you. It was all crap. That’s what he had learned from Andy, anyways.

Novak hummed in response.

‘’Novak?’’ Andy said, twisting his head to look at him as if he thought Novak was sleeping.

‘’Yeah, I hear you.’’ Novak said, pushing Andy’s face away lightly. He wasn’t ready to face another one of Andy’s soul searching _looks_ that he had mastered in the time they had been together. ‘’You’ve been _thinking._ Last time I checked that’s pretty normal.’’

The Scotsman smiles wryly in response to his sarcasm. ‘’No, I mean I’ve _really_ been thinking. About my career and stuff.’’

‘’Oh.’’ Novak replied. The retirement topic was as delicate as a snowflake, he never knew what to say really. _It doesn’t matter? You have better things in store? You had a great career?_

‘’You’re a British legend. Not many people can say that.’’ He settles on. Because he was. Hello, who else got the title of _Sir?_

‘’I know.’’ He says, nodding. ‘’And that’s why I have to come back.’’

He’s a bit shocked and negative counter-arguments spring to mind faster than lightning bolts _You’ll be in pain- You might not get back to where you are- You’re fucking crazy_ but all of these thoughts are secondary to the look of pure hope on Andy’s face. Who was he to ruin that? And besides, it was in his nature to never give up and he loved the game, Novak knew that. He watched Novak’s games with a smile on his face but Novak could tell that he wanted to be on court, watching from the sidelines wasn’t enough for him- none of it was enough.

So he nods slowly and leans up to kiss Andy’s forehead. ‘’Okay.’’ He says. ‘’If that’s what you want. Then I think you should do that.’’

Andy smiles at him, eyes crinkling. ‘’I’m coming back to tennis." He states, throwing back the duvet covers and flinging open the windows of their room. Novak feels the cold breeze seeping into the room, the moonlight highlighting Andy’s red boxer shorts. ‘’I’m coming back!’’ He yells into the late night sky like a madman, shouting at the top of his voice and raising his arms. It feels like it should be a scene from a musical but it isn’t, it was just Andy being really happy.

Novak gets up to join him by his side, even though he is shirtless. A sudden thought occurs to him ‘’You know someone, somewhere could be taking pictures of us right now?’’

Andy hums, but the words seem to sink into his skin because he glances around at the sea of other houses nearby. ‘’Would it bother you, though?’’ Andy asks. ‘’If someone did take pictures of us. Like this.’’

 _Like this._ Like obviously in post-sex euphoria, the sweat still gleaming on their skins, both shirtless and both within dangerously close proximity of each other. A 10 on the gay o meter. Hell, even an 11.

‘’Yeah.’’ Novak says and Andy’s face falls slightly. ‘’Because my hair looks awful.’’ he finishes, smirking as Andy shoves him.

It wasn’t something they had explicitly talked about but it was obvious that Andy didn’t care too much to hide their relationship- like at all. He mentioned Novak in all his interviews as casually as he blinked. Novak was perhaps a bit more cautious on the issue but he was starting to care less and less.

‘’So what’s your plan?’’ Novak says.

‘’I’ll probably get another surgery for my hip. And if it goes well then I’ll play some doubles. And if _that_ goes well-’’

‘’You’ll play singles.’’ Novak continues. ‘’And before you know it, I’ll be beating you in another Australian Open final.’’

‘’ _That’s_ never happening again.’’ Andy says adamantly.

They argue over it pettily for a while, but Novak can’t help the bubbling feeling building up inside of him- that Andy would be back on court again, fighting again, and feeling whole. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> folks! that's it! If you have stuck around with this fic from February to August I am so so grateful because its been a very long journey and I finally finished it! The ending also coincides with Andy's return to tennis at Cincinnati so lets hope he gets back to full fitness very soon. I've loved writing this and I hope you enjoyed reading it. 
> 
> Stephanie x

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I will be updating every single week. Tell me how you felt about it, is it good or meh?


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